Lost
by Write Sisters
Summary: Lost is the prequel to Counsel, which tells Edward's story—how he came to be adopted by and his relationship with each of the Cullens, the truth about his biological parents, his friendship with Jasper and James and describes the events that led to him becoming a prosecutor. Recommended only to those who have read Counsel.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Announcement:**

 **Forgive me taking up your time, but I feel a few words of caution are needed before anyone starts reading this story.**

 **Lost is a companion piece to Counsel. It's not intended as a stand-alone, and I strongly advise readers who have not asked or who are not interested to please NOT read this novella. I will not respond to, nor will I publish any rude and/or derogatory comments questioning its publication on this site. So, for those, inclined to do so, please save yourselves the time and effort. I've done so because readers requested that I do and because I promised, at the time, that when it was complete I'd post it on FFn and leave it up long enough for interested persons to read.**

 **It is now finished, totals eleven chapters, which I'll make available as soon as I possibly can, depending my current workload. At this stage, I anticipate posting at least three chapters a week.**

 **To those who have purchased the published versions of Counsel and Justice, I once again say a heartfelt, 'Thank you'. I'm humbled and grateful, always, for your support. Should you prefer to read the published characters' version of LOST, it will be available to read on my website in the next day or two.**

 **Copyright: Twilight character names are the sole property of Stephanie Meyer. Original story, plot lines and characters belong to Write Sisters (Shenda Paul) and are subject to copyright laws.**

 **Chapter One**

"You're late! Where've you been?" Rose demands when I enter the kitchen where she and Mom are.

"None of your business," I snap, grabbing the cookie jar.

"No arguing," Mom warns and comes over to kiss my cheek.

"Do you want milk?" Rose asks, already opening the refrigerator door.

"Thanks," I smile at her unspoken apology. Shifting between affection and irritation has epitomized our relationship for nearly a decade now. Six at the time and two years younger than me when I came to live with the Cullens, Rose assumed the role one would expect from an older, not younger sister.

From the start, she seemed, always to either be trying bully or mother me. She nags when she thinks I'm holding back, argues when she disagrees with me and comforts me when I'm upset; and I admit I'd been agitated a lot in those early years. Em says I was a moody bastard, that I still am, but withdrawing is my coping mechanism. It was how I dealt with my confusion and feelings of rejection in my last years with Elizabeth. It's what I still do when coming to grips with something that bothers me. I have no problems being sociable, but I'm not naturally gregarious, probably a symptom of spending so much of my early life only with Elizabeth and, later, when she changed, alone. Now, I prefer spending time with my family and close-knit group of friends.

When I want to be alone, Mom and Dad will make sure I'm okay and only push if they think it's necessary, and my friends, even Liam, who can be a pain in the ass, will give me space when I demand it. Rose, however, does no such thing; she ignores whatever mood I'm in. She's like a damned steamroller, determined to flatten out what she used to call my 'grumpy bumps', which, now, she refers to as 'ridding me of my morose pig-headedness.'

She's always done that, even as a little girl, and my response has always been either one of acceptance or expressed irritation, depending on her level of pushiness, my mood, or the circumstance. But no matter how annoying she can be or angry she makes me, my love for Rose is unquestionable. I think the same can be said of her feelings for me.

Our affection had been almost instantaneous and, despite her hearing problems and my inability to sign, we managed to communicate. Somehow, Rose always seemed to know when I was unhappy. She'd sneak into my room at night, squeeze into the small space between my bed and the wall it was pushed up against, to hold my hand, silently letting me know I wasn't alone.

I didn't realize the feeling of protectiveness was a two-way street until some months after I arrived when hanging out with Em in the playground, I heard spiteful laughter. I don't know what made me race over, but I did and found Rose surrounded by a group of kids. I didn't care that those little punks were younger than me or that two of them were girls; I shoved them aside roughly and put my arm around Rose's shoulder.

She was flustered, angry, and on the verge of tears. At that stage, she hadn't yet learned to lip-read well; she could only pick up familiar words and had difficulty when people spoke too fast. Without them signing or speaking slowly, she had no idea what they were saying, and they were all yelling at once, confusing her even more. It hurt seeing her like that. I was so mad; I saw red when one of the boys called her a deaf freak. "Leave my sister alone!" I roared.

"She doesn't have a brother," he said.

"She has now; and if I catch you messing with her again—" I glared at them, including the girls, "I'll punch your lights out," I threatened. They must have seen how serious I was, and Em, by this time, had moved to stand on the other side of Rose. They left without another word.

The Cullens had, we still have, a ritual where, at the dinner table, we take turns to share something about our day—good or bad. That night, I waited for Rose to tell what happened, but she didn't. Instead, I listened as Mom translated her signing for me. Rose told how her teacher had praised her drawing.

When my turn came, I asked to learn sign language because, after walking Rose to her class, I realized I was as bad as those kids who hadn't learned to speak with her properly. When Mom told Rose, her face split into the widest grin I'd ever seen. Rose, already being proficient, insisted on joining me in ASL classes, and our bond only grew stronger after that. I was ecstatic, of course, when less than a year later, my adoption was finalized, and I officially became Edward Masen Cullen. But I can honestly say that my happiness that day did nothing to dim the sense of belonging I felt standing up for Rose in the playground—because that was when I'd felt part of the Cullen family.

Almost two years ago now, Rose, who'd been adamant about not having a cochlear implant, changed her mind. Mom and Dad immediately arranged for her to see a specialist, and she underwent a myriad of tests before he pronounced her a viable candidate. Rose, in fact, our entire family were warned that it would not be an easy journey. The surgery was vital to her regaining adequate hearing, but it was only the first step, the specialist told us. It would take a lot of work, perseverance, and patience from Rose and our unwavering support for her to gain the maximum benefit from the implant.

Surgery for pre-lingually deaf recipients is not always successful, and there are varying levels of success, he cautioned. "I want you all to be realistic, you especially, Rose," he stressed. He had, however, been optimistic about a good outcome. "Your parents did a good thing ensuring that you could read and sign from an early age. Because of that, you have excellent language comprehension," he told Rose. He was right, because, even at six, when I joined the family, her ability to read and understanding of the English language had been diagnosed as equal to other kids her age. Strong language skills, we learned at that meeting, are crucial to helping deaf people understand spoken language.

It made sense to me then, and probably Rose too, why, despite her refusing an implant, our parents insisted she continue speech therapy, something she did for years, even after I joined the family. Mom and Dad had, it would seem, always held out hope that Rose would change her mind and did everything to ensure that, if she did, she'd have the best possible outcome.

Rose underwent surgery six months later and had her cochlear implant activated about a month after that. Another nine months passed before the specialist announced that it had reached its peak performance. Nine months, during which my sister suffered discomfort in and above her right ear, the surgical area. She experienced dizziness, nausea, and disorientation. And who would ever have thought that one would have to learn to tolerate sound, but once the implant was activated, Rose had to before she could learn to decipher different sounds.

For some reason, despite what we'd been told, I'd thought, well hoped, the surgery would restore Rose's hearing and ability to speak overnight, but it didn't. My admiration for her grew and knew no bounds as I watched her determinedly overcome each new obstacle, and those lessons that Mom and Dad insisted she take helped significantly, just as the specialist had predicted. Her hearing isn't perfect now; it never will be, but she can do things she couldn't before— things, most people view as insignificant or take for granted—like hearing the voices of the person or people they love, using a phone, listening to music, effectively communicate with strangers. She can do all of that now.

Rose still lip-reads, though. I don't think she'll ever stop because it's something that's become natural to her, and, despite it no longer being necessary, she often still signs when speaking to Mom, Dad, or me. We reciprocate because for us, as a family, it's a special bond we share.

Rose is fifteen now and, because of her unusual speech, a result of her hearing impairment, still attracts unwanted attention. And, of course, the external transmitter of her implant is noticeable, especially when her long hair moves and the shaved patch on her scalp or the earpiece shows. It irritates me when people stare. "What the fuck?" I want to demand when I see someone staring, but then those ignorant, dumb asses would notice of any person they view as different or handicapped. Rose, thankfully, doesn't appear fazed by the attention her device draws, which helps me, for the most part, to ignore it too. But my sister's also noticed for other reasons.

She's beautiful and is, very obviously, growing up. In the last year, I've challenged both catty girls and hormonal boys who thought her fair game. I've even gotten physical with punks who tried to take their interest too far. Rose, no shrinking violet, is more than capable of standing up for herself, but I'd never let her do so on her own, certainly not if I can help it. I'll always be there for her, just as she has and continues to be for me.

"What's for dinner, I'm hungry?" I ask, peering over Mom's shoulder.

"You're always hungry, sweetheart. We're having pot roast, so stop filling up on cookies," Mom tells me.

"I won't," I promise and, then, just as Rose moves to put the jar away, I snag another cookie. Mom shakes her head and smiles indulgently, and I wink at her as I leave the kitchen.

I first met Esme Cullen when I was six years old. I'd been nervous when someone knocked on our door because I expected it to be one of Elizabeth's male visitors. Instead, when Elizabeth opened the door, I looked into the smiling face of a woman, who looked a lot like my mother—her auburn hair was lighter, and her eyes were golden brown not green, but they were bright like I remembered Elizabeth's being before she changed. There were so many obvious similarities between Elizabeth and Esme, things my mother once had and which I hankered after, that I felt an almost instant connection with the stranger at our door.

"I'm Esme Cullen, with the local department of social services," she said, her voice friendly and her smile encouraging. Elizabeth glanced worriedly back at me before answering.

"I don't need any help, I'm taking care of my son," she protested.

"I'm sure you are, Miss Masen, and I'm here to help in any way I can," Esme said and then something about the department sending someone else if Elizabeth didn't let her in.

I hadn't understood what that meant, except that I was scared of someone other than Esme or old Mrs. Doyle, our kind neighbor, visiting. Elizabeth, thankfully, let her in, and I remember well, how, soon after she'd sat down on our faded sofa, she pulled a chocolate bar from her bag and handed it to me. I felt unsure, and despite being desperately hungry, hesitated. "My daughter loves these," she said, "I'm sure you will too." Her smile had been warm and gentle, so I did. I offered it to Elizabeth, knowing that, like me, she hadn't eaten, but she shook her head, her glazed eyes looked tearful as she touched my cheek. "I'm fine, Edward," she said, "you have it."

I ate while sitting on the floor where afterward, I played when Esme suggested that she and Elizabeth move to the kitchen to talk. I looked up often to make sure Elizabeth was okay to see Esme watching me. She smiled each time our eyes met even though I didn't reciprocate. I didn't until I felt sure she wasn't there to hurt Elizabeth or me, and then I gave her a tiny smile.

Esme came by often after that, and I looked forward to her visits. She was nice and always brought food and for me, one of those special chocolate bars. She'd help Elizabeth get me ready for school, and when she didn't, Mrs. Doyle would bring me breakfast and make sure I got to school. I don't know what would have happened to me if they hadn't cared enough.

I remember how embarrassed I felt when arriving at school, especially in those last months. Everyone else's mother was alert, smiling, and happy; not mine. Elizabeth had been listless, often barely able to function. I hadn't known, then, what was wrong; all I knew was that my once vibrant mother, who'd doted on me, had changed. I was picked on mercilessly because of my 'odd' mom.

Finally, having had enough, I pushed Roger Montgomery over in the playground. When asked, I stubbornly refused to repeat what he'd said. I didn't know what whore meant, but I just knew it was bad. He, of course, claimed innocence, saying I attacked him for no reason. My silence, in the teacher's eyes, spelled guilt.

Unable to reach Elizabeth, she called Esme, who, for whatever reason, by some miracle I thought, had been listed as my emergency contact. Instead of getting into trouble as I'd expected, she bought us each an ice cream and took me to the park. All I'd say when Esme asked what happened was that Roger had said bad things about my mommy. Esme gently reprimanded me for fighting, telling me there was a right and a wrong way to deal with someone who'd harmed me. She said if something like that happens again, I should tell a teacher and explained that it's always best when someone does you harm, to tell the right authorities. I asked what authorities means, and she said people like mommies and daddies, teachers, the police, and doctors.

It didn't matter what Roger said, my mommy loved me and was doing the best she could, Esme told me. I didn't respond; I didn't want to talk about what had happened or the way my mommy had changed. I wanted to eat my ice cream and pretend I was normal, and being with Esme made me feel that way.

.

.

"I got us tickets to the game next Saturday?" Dad announces as he passes me the potatoes.

"Thanks, Dad!" I return his grin and help myself to a large serving before handing the bowl to Rose.

"Field box, tier one," he adds, causing my smile to nearly split my face.

"That's not fair—" Rose complains.

"It is, Rosalie. You got the shoes you wanted last week, and Edward's been getting excellent grades; he deserves a reward," Dads counters, looking up to smile at me—that smile, the one that lets me know he's proud of me.

And that's just another reason why I love Carlisle; he always lets me know he's proud of me. Well, both Rose and me, but she's his biological child; I'm not. Unlike with Esme and Rose, I hadn't felt instantly at ease with Carlisle when we met. In fact, I'd been downright wary of him because my only interactions with men, until then, had been with those who visited Elizabeth, and those encounters hadn't been pleasant. So, when first entering the Cullen home, I saw him, I hid behind Esme.

He smiled encouragingly and dropped to his knees, bringing his face level with mine. "Hi Edward, I'm Carlisle, and I'm very happy to have you here," he said. I stepped back only to bump into someone behind me. I spun around to face a blonde, blue-eyed girl with lopsided pigtails and a big smile. She moved her hands oddly and then looked at me expectantly.

"This is Rosalie, our daughter. We sometimes call her Rose. She's nearly six, and she says hello and welcome," Carlisle said.

"She didn't talk," I turned to Esme, refusing to acknowledge him.

"She talks by signing. Those movements she made said, 'Hello, Edward, welcome home'," Esme explained. I stared at her in amazement before turning back to the girl.

"Thanks," I said, and her smile grew, showing the gap in her front teeth.

"Rose wants to show you your room," Carlisle announced and got to his feet. The girl clutched his hand and glanced over her shoulder, and when I didn't follow, motioned for me to hurry.

It took months before I'd freely speak with Carlisle, and by that time, he and Esme had been appointed my foster parents. Emmett wanted me to join his Little League baseball team, but I was afraid to ask, worried the Cullens would think me a bother and send me away. Em nagged for weeks before I built up the courage to mention it to Esme, and then, to my disappointment, she said she'd need to discuss it with Carlisle. I was sure he'd say no, but he surprised me that night when he agreed I could join.

Esme and Rose accompanied me to my first match and waved when I looked for and found them in the stands. I was so happy and proud to have someone— a family— to support me. When my turn came, I ran onto the field, grinning like an idiot, assumed the stance I'd been taught and managed, despite my nervousness, to hit the ball. "Great shot, Edward!" a familiar voice shouted. I looked over, shocked, to find Carlisle jumping up and down excitedly. I can't begin to describe how I felt seeing him there.

I'd secretly longed to have a dad like other kids but had resigned myself to never having one. In the past, whenever I'd raise the subject with Elizabeth, she'd grow sad. "I'm sorry, Edward, but you don't have a daddy; you only have me," she'd say. So I didn't ask again and, eventually, stopped thinking about having a father.

When I walked off the field that day, and Carlisle put his hand on my shoulder, drawing me close, I hugged him back. I proudly introduced him to my coach as my foster dad. "Soon to be his adoptive dad," Carlisle added, looking as proud of me as I was of him. I stared up at him, surprised and overjoyed that they'd want to keep me.

"Edward?" Mom's voice brings me back to the present. "Did you hear what I said?"

"He was probably dreaming about Natalie Jones," Rose says before I can respond. I feel my face flush.

"Who's Natalie Jones?" Mom asks.

"No one," I mutter, but my busybody sister, who has nothing better to do than stick her nose into my business, keeps talking.

"Edward _likes_ her," she rolls her eyes, pretending to swoon. "He wants to _kiss_ her," she says, smacking her lips together.

"Shut up, Rose," I warn her, raising my voice.

"Don't shout at your sister, Son; and Rosalie, leave your brother alone. How'd you like it if he tells everyone you're sweet on Emmett?" Dad asks, trying to keep a straight face.

"I'm _not_ sweet on Emmett McCarty!" she yells, glaring daggers at me even though I hadn't said anything to our parents about her always hanging around when Em came home with me. I'd said plenty to her, of course.

"Stop it, you two," Mom admonishes. "Finish your dinner; and, Rose, you can help me clear up."

"What about Edward?" she complains.

"Your Dad has things to discuss with him."

"I haven't done anything wrong," I quickly say.

"Relax, Edward. I know you haven't—or have you?" Dad asks.

"No!" I protest. "What do you want to talk about?"

"After dinner; and there's nothing to worry about if, as you say, you've done nothing wrong," he replies dryly before filling his mouth with food.

.

.

"What's it mean?" I ask, staring at the letter Dad handed me.

"I'm not entirely sure, Edward, but it appears your biological father mentioned you in his will. I've called to speak with this Mr. Atkins," he points to the signatory. "He was out, but he'll call back."

"As you can tell from what he's written, Edward Winston died in a plane crash about six months ago, and it's taken his lawyers all this time to trace you. Charles Atkins has asked that I bring you to New York for a meeting."

 **Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

' _… I just heard the news today, it seems my life is going to change…"_ Creed's lyrics pound in my ears. Well, the bit about the news is pretty accurate, but I'm sure as hell not feeling any joy. What I feel is burning anger.

Edward Winston, only son of a stinking-rich New York family and, apparently, also my biological father, has named me in his will. Dad doesn't know how much money he left me, only that Charles Atkins, who he's now spoken to, called it a 'significant sum'. He gave only basic information, which included the fact that Edward Winston had been a Harvard medical student when he met Elizabeth. I feel sick at the realization that she almost certainly named me after him.

He must have known she was pregnant, and he'd probably also known she'd struggle after he left because she had no family or other support. Elizabeth Masen's parents died in a boating accident when she was just a toddler. She'd lived with her only remaining relative, her maternal grandmother, who died from a stroke when she'd been barely eighteen. I know this because Elizabeth told Mom during one of their conversations. She turned twenty-one just after I was born, so she'd been twenty and alone when Winston left her to return to his wealthy family and easy life.

Now, decades later, he decides to include me in his will? Well, fuck him—I don't want his money. I hope he rots in hell!

The music stops suddenly, and I snap my eyes open to find Rose standing over me

"Turn it on, Rosalie," I growl.

"What's wrong?" she asks, even though she knows because, after our discussion, Dad told her and, naturally, updated Mom on my reaction. I refused to be present, choosing to go straight to my room where I've spent most of the last two days.

I want to tell Rose to get out, but I can't be mad at her when she looks at me like that. "There's a lot of shit going on that I don't understand, and I sure as hell don't like it!"

She crawls over me to lie with her back against the wall. "Tell me," she mouths, and that simple invitation, like it's always done, loosens the tightness in my chest.

"Why don't you want to go? Don't you _want_ to know more?" she asks when I've told her how I feel and confessed that I have no intention of going to New York.

'What difference will it make? The fact is, he didn't care—he _never_ cared."

"He cared enough to leave you something, Edward."

"Money! I bet _that_ was never a problem for him."

"Just go, or you'll never know anything about him or why he left."

Dad used pretty much the same argument. He said I'd regret it when I'm older, that I owed it to Elizabeth and myself to go. I stormed out of his office after he insisted I accompany him, but I know the conversation is far from over. _And_ he'll definitely be calling me out on my behavior because I was so confused and mad that I shoved some things off his desk on my way out.

I mean, what the hell? When Elizabeth said I only had her, I'd stupidly invented some mythical, perfect man, one who'd died doing something heroic. In my childish imagination, he'd wanted us— _me_ —but had no choice. I didn't once consider that he'd known of my existence, that he chose to ignore me for seventeen years. What if he'd lived another forty; would he have acknowledged me in that time? Some fucking hero!

Rose scrambles over me to leave but turns back at the door. "I love you, big brother," she signs.

"Love you too, Sis," I say out loud.

The next morning, I tell Dad I'll go to New York.

.

.

"Edward, are you all right?" Dad asks, placing his hand on my shoulder. We're in the offices of Babcock, Atkins, and Hanes. All marble, glass, and lots of expensive-looking art, it's clear this is a law firm for very rich people.

"I'm fine," I tell him, even though I'm not.

"Don't worry, Son; I'll be right there with you," Dad assures me, and I return his smile gratefully. No matter what I learn today, Carlisle Cullen is my father—my _only_ father and a man to be proud of.

Dad's a striking figure of a man, good looking, tall, and fit. He's always been at ease in any situation, but there's something different about him today. I'd been a bit shocked when he walked through our interconnecting doors this morning. An architect and owner of a construction company, Dad usually dresses in a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt when visiting sites, which he often does. For days spent in his office, he wears a pair of dress slacks and adds a tie and jacket for client meetings. I've never seen him look quite as businesslike as he does right now.

Yes, he looks even more impressive in the dark suit, white shirt, and red and gray striped tie, but it's the resolve in his eyes and the set of his jaw that strikes me as unusual. If Charles Atkins thought he'd be meeting someone easily influenced or intimidated, then he's about to find out just how badly mistaken he was. My Dad looks ready to face down anything or anyone. My chest swells with love and pride when I realize that he's here not only to learn about the contents of Edward Winston's will and support me; he's here to lay claim to me as _his_ son.

Sitting in this opulent place, I finally understand why, when he saw my expression this morning, Dad said, "appearances count, Edward, remember that." And, for the first time, I feel grateful that Mom insisted I pack the charcoal slacks, white shirt, red tie, and black blazer she bought me. I complained, practically whined, that teenagers did not wear stuff like that. Her reply had been, 'well-dressed teenagers who are going to important meetings in New York do.'

As proud as I am to call Carlisle dad, I want him to feel the same way about me, especially today. I want Edward Winston's lawyer and through him, his family, to know that from the moment I entered Carlisle and Esme Cullen's home, I didn't need his money and that I sure as hell don't need it now. I almost choke on the resentment I feel when comparing what I imagine his life must have been like to the one Elizabeth and I led. I can't wait to reject his belated attempt at making amends and then get out of here.

Dad promised me a day of sightseeing after our meeting. Rose and Mom, of course, eagerly suggested places to visit. Dad said no more than five, and so The Empire State building was included because Mom and Rose once watched and enjoyed some old movie. Times Square made the list because Rose and I have fond memories of staying up to watch the ball drop on New Year's Eve. Emmett, when he learned about the trip, insisted on a visit to Yankee Stadium, and given that Dad also had it on his list, there was no way we were going to skip that. And finally, both Dad and I wanted to visit The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.

"Mr. Cullen?" someone calls out, and Dad stands as a middle-aged woman approaches. I get to my feet as well. "Yes. I'm Carlisle Cullen, and this is my son, Edward," he replies.

"Mr. Atkins will see you now," she announces, smiling politely, and then turns her gaze on me. Her smile slips, and her eyes widen before she schools her expression into one of professional blandness. Do I look like _him_? I wonder; the thought makes me feel ill.

"This way, please," she says, practiced smile in place once more.

.

.

"Thank you for making the trip, Mr. Cullen, Edward," Charles Atkins says as we settle into the leather chairs across from him. He didn't have quite the same reaction as his secretary when seeing me, but I've sensed his eyes on me several times since greeting us.

"Well, it seemed the only way to get the answers Edward needs," Dad gets straight to the point.

"Yes, of course. Let's get on with it, shall we." Winston's lawyer looks a bit uncomfortable, although, I don't know why. He's not the one who left a pregnant woman to fend for herself and his bastard kid.

He opens a brown leather folder and stares at it briefly before raising his head to address me.

"Mr. Winston, your father, died in mid-February. He and his pilot were killed on what should have been a routine flight to Aspen to join his family for a weekend of skiing." He pauses expectantly. I say nothing; if he expects me to show interest or sorrow, then he's in for a big disappointment. I'm not interested in learning about Edward Winston's lavish life. I just want him to get to the part about the money so I can tell him I don't want it.

"Mr. Atkins, something puzzles me. How did you trace Edward, and how can you be certain he's Mr. Winston's son?" Dad asks, and Atkins retrieves something from the brown folder and hands it to dad. It's a handwritten letter with a photograph clipped to one corner, which Dad stares at it for long moments before his mouth curves into a smile as he slowly runs a finger over it. I'm curious but try not to show it because I can sense Atkins watching me again.

Dad reads the letter. His eyebrows draw together, and his mouth forms a straight line. "Did he ever respond to this?" he asks.

"I'm afraid I don't know. Mr. Winston did leave something for Edward, though; you may find answers in there." Atkins reveals a sealed envelope, which he offers me. I shake my head, refusing to accept it.

"This is a stressful situation for my son, as I'm sure you'll understand, Mr. Atkins. He didn't want to attend this meeting, but my wife and I insisted—not because Edward needs anything from Edward Winston, but because he _deserves_ it. My son hasn't accepted that premise yet, so I'll take that for safekeeping for whenever Edward feels ready to open it."

"Of course," Atkins says, his tone apologetic.

"I'd also like his mother's letter and that photograph, please," Dad adds, and now I know it's a letter from Elizabeth, one she'd, apparently, written to Winston. So, she _did_ contact him, and it's equally clear that he'd deliberately ignored us.

Atkins nods. "With your permission, I'll have Diane make a copy for our files and include the originals with what Mr. Winston left for Edward."

"Thank you," Dad replies before turning to me. "Son, do you have any questions? Something you'd like to know about Edward Winston or his family?"

I'm glad he hasn't referred to him as my father. "Just one," I answer, and both Dad and Atkins look at me expectantly. "Does he have other children?"

"He does," Atkins says after a moment's silence—a moment in which I curse myself for asking because, of course, I suspected. I already _knew_ the answer, but that doesn't stop the fresh wave of betrayal washing over me, nor the anger that follows.

I lower my head and breathe deeply through my nose, fighting not embarrass Dad and myself by losing control. When I look up, Atkins is nervously staring at Dad, but Dad's watching me. His mouth turns up into a smile, his message clear, and the weight I felt pressing down on me is lifted. I'm _his_ son; Edward Winston may have donated his sperm, but Carlisle Cullen is my dad.

"He has a son and two daughters, their names are…." Atkins continues, but I cut him off.

"I didn't ask for their names, I asked if he had other children, and you've told me."

"Of course, I'll just get on with the legal proceedings," he says after nervously clearing his throat.

"Your father, Edward Winston, has left you thirty million dollars.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. I'll post another chapter later this week.**

 **I reiterate that this story is a companion piece to Counsel and is being posted on this site because readers who have read the Twilight version when it was available requested it. I no longer have copies of the original manuscript and am, therefore, unable to provide copies of it.**

 **I would, however, like to offer 10 (ten) complimentary eBook copies to the first ten interested readers who email me at:**

 **shenda at shendapaul dot com**

 **Delete spaces and replace the words 'at' and 'dot' with the normal symbols. Also, please note, that I can, at this stage, only send the eBooks via Amazon, so only readers with access to a Kindle or Kindle app will be eligible. I have not yet figured out how to gift copies via Barnes and Noble or iBooks.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

* * *

"Could you repeat that?" Dad asks, his voice sounding faint through the whooshing in my head. I must have misheard and so, it seems, has Dad.

"Mr. Winston left his son, Edward Masen, thirty million dollars," Atkins repeats, and then before Dad can respond, continues. "There are some stipulations, of course, but essentially, the bequest is free of restrictions."

"That's what I thought," Dad answers, sounding remarkably calm. He turns to me and, seeing my expression, frowns in concern.

"Edward? Are you all right?" he asks.

My brain only kicks in fully when Dad touches my arm. And, as realization sets in, my anger and disgust at Winston return tenfold.

"I don't want it!" I say, trying not to shout. I stand, practically jumping up to race out before I give in to the urge to break things. Outside, I pace the lobby near the elevators in an attempt to clear the red fog from my brain. I'm not sure how long it takes before Dad appears. He presses a button before turning to pat me on the back.

"I know this is a shock and that you're upset, Son, so let's not discuss it until we get home. I want you to enjoy the rest of the day and take your time to digest everything. I have both letters with me, which I think you should read; but I won't rush you," he says as we descend to ground level.

I nod, grateful that he's not pushing right now.

"Did you tell him we don't want the money?" I ask.

"Edward, it's not our money, it's _your_ money. And no, I said no such thing. We'll discuss this when we get home—when you've calmed down and after your mom and I have had time to talk."

Out on the street, Dad hails a cab, and we return to the hotel for a quick change of clothing before leaving once more. The Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island are our first stops. From there, we make our way to the Empire State building and walk to the top so we can tell Mom and Rose we did. While visiting the gift shop, I buy a snow globe for Mom and a sparkly key chain for Rose. Dad and I take a tour of the Yankees Stadium next, where I get Em an official Rawlings Major League baseball. I admire it so much that Dad gets one for me too.

We try to make the most of our day by forgetting about the morning's events, but there are times when either Dad or I lapse into silence. I have no doubt that, like me, he's thinking about the meeting with Mr. Atkins. I have no idea what Dad may have learned after I left the room; right now, I honestly don't care. I meant it when I said I didn't want to know or have anything to do with the Winston family.

Finally, after wandering around and doing some shopping, mostly for Rose and me, Dad announces that we need to visit Tiffany's on Fifth Avenue. I discovered, years ago that Mom, despite her strong views on equality between the sexes, loves the elegance and manners of the time she says old Hollywood movies portray. So, I'm not surprised when Dad tells me Tiffany's is a jewelry store, and I ask why we can't visit any of the other stores we've passed that he relates a rather long-winded story about a movie, Breakfast at Tiffany's. Every discerning woman would love to receive something from the iconic store; he tells me.

"Remember that response when you meet a woman you love as much as I love your Mom, " he chuckles in response to my look of ridicule.

"Not going to happen," I mumble.

"What? You haven't met someone who's made your heart pound yet?" he jokes and, despite my best efforts not to react, my face heats.

I haven't met anyone who's made my heart pound, but other parts of my body have most definitely been affected by girls; Natalie Jones, especially.

.

.

I spend most of the flight home staring out into the night, thankful that it'll be too late for long conversations when we get home. When we arrive, I greet Mom and Rose, and then immediately excuse myself to go upstairs, where I make a quick trip to the bathroom before going straight to bed.

"You can see Edward in the morning. He's had a big day," I hear Dad say.

"I said _tomorrow_ , Rosalie," he says more firmly, and I assume she'd argued because he hardly ever takes that tone with Rose, with either of us, in fact. I feel sure, though, that Dad won't wait until the morning to fill Mom in.

Despite my dark mood, I smile when I hear Rose stomp off; she does like having the last word.

I wake with a start when something heavy lands on my legs.

"What the hell? I mutter irritably. It took some time to fall asleep because I couldn't stop thinking about Edward fucking Winston.

He'd known about me, Elizabeth's letter made sure of that. I have no idea when she wrote it, but it must have been more than eight years ago because she's been dead for that long. However long ago it was, he didn't try to contact me. He'd clearly not wanted to because he instructed his lawyer to hold onto both letters until after his death. I also don't know when he wrote whatever he did to me—but what difference does it make if it was seventeen years or six months ago? The fact is, he didn't want to know me.

Thirty fucking million dollars—guilt money—he can shove it!

A sharp knock to my shin brings me back to the present. I open my eyes and raise my head to glare at Rose.

"Well?" she demands, opening her arms expectantly.

"Well, what? Damn Rose!" I yell, glancing at the clock.

"It's seven, and it's Saturday—go away." I lie down and turn my back on her.

She pulls my pillow out from under me, making my head hit the mattress with a thump. She pummels me with it until I struggle to sit up.

"Well?" she says, her tone and expression challenging.

I reach for the plastic bag beside my bed, rummage through it and hand her a small box.

"Here. Can I go back to sleep now?" I ask, and she hits me again.

"Stop that! You do _not_ want to start a fight with me," I threaten, sitting up. Rose holds the pillow aloft—my only pillow—and smiles smugly.

"Tell me what happened," she demands.

"Wait! This first—" she decides, throwing herself onto my bed before excitedly opening the box. She smiles and dangles the chain from a finger.

"Thanks," she says. "Now, tell me about it!"

"Well, the Empire State Building was completed in nineteen forty-one and remained the tallest building in New York until —" Rose narrows her eyes in warning.

"The asshole left me thirty million dollars!" I say, signing as I speak.

'You mean three," Rose holds up three fingers.

I answer by slowly and deliberately signing. "T-h-i-r-t-y," I mouth at the same time.

"Fuck!" she replies.

"No shit, Sherlock," I say, just as Mom passes my door.

"No swearing!" she admonishes me before her look turns to one of concern.

"How are you feeling, sweetheart?" Yep, Dad's definitely filled her in.

"I'm fine, Mom. What's for breakfast?" I change the subject.

"Your favorite," Mom says, and I smile back at her. Pancakes, maple syrup, and crispy bacon—I'm already salivating because I haven't eaten since the hamburger and fries Dad and I had at the airport before boarding last night.

"Thanks, Mom," I call out as she turns away. I know she's making that especially for me.

"Food will be on the table in half an hour. Make sure you dress before you come down," Mom tells both of us.

"You're rich; you can buy a car," Rose says excitedly.

"I don't want the money," I tell her.

"Why not? You're entitled."

"Don't you _get_ it?" I jab my forefinger to my temple for emphasis.

"He _knew_ about me… he deliberately waited until after he _died_ to acknowledge me! It was probably some last-ditch attempt to save his soul or something; I don't fucking want his money. I want nothing to do with him, just like he wanted nothing to do with me!"

Her face drops. "I'm sorry," she whispers, diving forward to give me a fierce hug. I wrap my arms around her shoulders and squeeze back before getting up and going to the bathroom.

Standing under the water, I think about what I'd said to Rose. Winston _had_ planned for me to find out about him only after his death. I bet he'd never even mentioned Elizabeth or me to his family. What a fucking coward; he didn't want to face them or us. Instead, he left his lawyers to deal with it. And his letter to me, what the hell was that about? I don't know what excuses he could possibly have for his behavior. Nothing he had to say would make any difference—Edward Winston can't buy my forgiveness.

.

.

A couple of days later, still lost in my head, I wander the streets for ages before, finally, making my way to The Hangout, where I arranged to meet my friends. I've known Emmett McCarty since shortly after I moved in with Mom, Dad, and Rose. Other than my sister, I'd say he's my best friend. I'll never forget our first meeting. I was the new kid at school—a skinny, insecure, runt, the perfect target for bullies.

A group of older boys swaggered around like they owned the place, and, out of sight of teachers, picked on other kids. They targeted me almost from day one. Mad as it made me, I ignored them, not wanting to cause trouble and have my new family send me away. Then, one day, they demanded my lunch money. I may have been smaller, but there was no way I was handing it over—no way I'd willingly go hungry again.

"You know you're gonna have to," Billy Saunders, the leader and biggest, stepped forward. Our chests were nearly touching, but I didn't back down. He pushed me, and I remember stumbling back, but I planted my feet firmly. I didn't care that they outnumbered me; I'd had enough of their threats. "Oh, he's asking for it now," one of the punks sniggered.

I was preparing to thump Billy in the gut as hard as I could when we were interrupted. "Want to make this a fair fight?" a voice said from behind me. I didn't take my eyes off Billy as the kid came to stand beside me.

"This is nothing to do with you, McCarty," Billy challenged, not quite as cocky as before.

"When you gang up on a kid, I make it my business."

Together, Emmett and I faced down Billy's group that day. We all ended up in the principal's office and then picking up garbage in the playground for two days after, but it was worth it. I had a bloody nose, and Em, a bruise on his chin, but we were proud that the others were in worse shape. I'd barely turned eight, and Emmett had been nine at the time—we've been best friends ever since. He introduced me to Alec and Liam, and we've all been pretty much inseparable since then.

"Bout time you got here," Liam calls out when I enter our local pool hall. It's our regular meeting place, which we've named The Hangout. Barney, the owner, is a tough guy, who takes no shit, but he's used to us now, and we all think he's cool. We mess around a lot, but never here, because to us, this place has become our second home.

"You playing?" Alec asks, impatiently tapping his cue when Em and I start a conversation.

"You ready to lose again?" I goad.

"Yeah, Alec, how many times have you lost now? Do you even have anything left to bet?" Em snorts with laughter.

"You've already lost Platoon and Street Fighter," Liam rubs it in.

"Maybe I'll bet he can't get to second base with a girl," Alec counters.

Before I can say something smart in return, Mitch Jones, a kid who's had a couple of run-ins with Alec, interrupts. "How about Victoria Knowles? Everyone knows she's up for it—just ask Pat Kelly."

Alec has a soft spot for Victoria. Jones knows this, and he's lying about Kelly, but he also knows Alec will react. Em, Liam, and I prepare for the fallout.

"Say that again, and you'll be spitting out teeth like melon seeds," Alec threatens, his grip tightening on his cue. We move to his side, and Jones' four friends join him. And just like that, we're in a face-off.

Some shoving happens before Barney orders Jones' gang to leave. They do, but Jones turns back to yell at Alec. "I bet she'll give it up for me too!"

Em holds Alec back, telling him to let it go. "There's plenty of time to get even," he says.

On our way home, we pass a burger joint, and Liam points out a blue car parked around the corner. Alec smirks. It's Jones' pride and joy, his second-hand Chevy Cavalier. He tells Liam and me to keep watch while he and Em make their way to the car. Minutes later, we hear a shrill whistle, and Liam and I sprint to catch up with them as they take off down the block.

Alec whoops with delight when, a safe distance away, we stop. He opens his coat to reveal two hubcaps. Em shows us the matching pair.

" _Now_ you're even," he says, returning Alec's grin.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **That's it for this week, but I'll be back with two or more chapters next week.**

 **Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to congratulate me on the publication of Counsel and Justice and, of course, to those who expressed interest in buying the books. I'm grateful for and humbled by your patronage. If you've read the published version of Counsel and enjoyed it, I'd appreciate it greatly if you'd consider leaving a review on both or either Amazon and Goodreads. Positive reviews and recommendations are the lifeblood to gaining awareness for a budding author's work— not just mine, but every struggling writer, especially those of us who started out on community sites such as this.**

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 **Please delete spaces and replace the word 'dot' with the usual symbol. Click onto 'Books' and then the 'Browse' button.**

 **Take care, everyone. Until next time.**

 **x**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

* * *

"Edward, let him go. What the fuck's wrong with you?" Emmett yells.

"He's spouting shit!" I shake off his hold on my arm.

"You know he's an ass. We all know that, and you're normally the coolest about it. What's going on?"

I inhale and then exhale deeply—to clear my head but also get rid of the knot in my gut. Heavy as lead and molten like lava sometimes, I feel it rise, the need for release so strong, I feel like I'm about to explode. I've experienced some form of it since I was just a kid, forced to listen to what was happening in the next room. _Then_ , I cried to ease those feelings. I haven't cried in years, and I've managed, mostly, since my adoption, to control my emotions. But, after learning about Edward Winston, they've returned. I know enough now to realize what I feel is anger, but the feelings are so much more intense; they border on rage and are harder than ever to control.

Liam was just acting true to form. He wanted us to go on to a coffee shop where a girl he's interested in hangs out. I said no, that I was expected home, and he called me a mommy's boy. It wasn't the first time he's made a crack like that or called me a pussy, but, for some reason, on this occasion, I snapped. I think they were all shocked when I shoved Liam against the wall.

"Don't ever fucking call me that or talk about my family again!" I warn, glaring at him before turning away.

"I was only messing around…." I hear him mutter.

"Edward, hold up," Em calls out, but I keep walking.

He's asked me several times since New York if I'm okay, and I've said I am. All he knows about the trip is what I told him before leaving; that we received news about my biological father. When we returned, I said he'd died and that he had another family I didn't want to meet. I didn't reveal Edward Winston's identity because I don't want my friends, even Em, to know the truth. How do you tell people who come from families who struggled financially that you've inherited thirty million dollars and don't want it?

I go straight to my room and shut my door when I get home. Dad isn't home yet, and Mom and Rose are making dinner. Usually, I'd join them, get in their way, and just chat, but I've been spending a lot of time in here drowning out my thoughts with music lately.

I open my eyes to find Mom staring down at me. She motions for me to turn the sound down.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you," I say, sitting up.

"You didn't, sweetheart, but I'm worried. What's up, Edward? You haven't been this withdrawn in years."

"Nothing, Mom…" I say, but she gives me her 'don't try to fool me look, and I cave.

" I _hate_ him. Why don't we just give the money back?"

Mom comes sits on the bed beside me. "Edward, I understand your anger; your dad and I both do, but, darling, you need to talk about it— to us, or we can find you someone for you to talk to because it's unhealthy to hold in so much anger and hurt."

"I'm not hurt; I'm mad—at him, at Elizabeth for not telling me, at myself for thinking he was some kind of hero. I was so _stupid_!" I confess, the words spilling from me like vomit.

"You weren't stupid; you wanted what all children need. Don't be so hard on yourself. Come downstairs; your dad will be home soon, and dinner's nearly ready," she suggests, so I do.

After dinner, back in my room, Dad comes to tell me he and Mom want to talk to me in his office. Mom's already waiting when I walk in ahead of Dad. "Sit down, sweetheart," she invites.

"What's up?" I ask, despite already knowing the reason for this meeting.

"We want to discuss your inheritance," Dad informs me.

"I've already said I don't want it, Dad. If you won't refuse, I don't want to know about it—spend it on Mom, Rose, yourself—anyone or anything, I don't care!"

"Watch your tone, Son. I've told you before; it's not our money, and your mother and I wouldn't dream of touching any of it. You're too young and angry right now to think clearly, so we've made some decisions to safeguard your entitlement," Dad says his tone warning me not to argue.

I bite down an angry retort. "Edward," Mom's soothing voice dampens my temper. "Your dad's right. You are entitled to that money. You were from the day you were born, and your mother would have wanted you to have it. I know you don't think it, let alone believe it, but Elizabeth wanted what's best for you. Don't let her sacrifices be for nothing."

I snort derisively, and Dad gives me another warning look. I can tell he's disappointed in me, and I lower my head, feeling somewhat ashamed. But I think it's a joke even to suggest that Elizabeth considered my wellbeing. If she did, she wouldn't have turned to alcohol and drugs or slept with those men.

"Are you ready to have a rational discussion?" Dad asks, taking his seat behind the desk. I nod because I don't trust myself not to say something without totally pissing him off.

"Good. Now I'd like you to let me finish without interrupting." He waits until I agree before continuing.

"I've taken financial and legal advice, Edward, and your mom and I have decided that the best thing to do is to set up a trust fund in your name. We also think you should receive a reasonable monthly allowance from the fund—put it into a bank account if you don't wish to spend it—" he cuts off my protest.

"I'll help you set up the account. We've also made allowances for your college education and a car when you turn eighteen.

"We suggest that the terms be set for you to gain access to your money when you turn twenty-five. You could, of course, take control of it sooner, but we strongly advise that you wait. You'll have a greater understanding of financial matters and, hopefully, a better perspective of things then.

"If you're agreeable, I suggest that Mom and I and our family solicitor, Mr. Greene, be appointed as trustees. If you'd like it to be anyone else, we're happy to consider it, but we insist that the person or persons be competent, trustworthy, and that we have them thoroughly investigated and cleared. What do you think about those arrangements?" Dad asks, and he and Mom wait patiently for me to reply. After long moments, I do.

"It seems reasonable, given that you won't refuse the money," I can't resist adding. "I won't be spending it, so there's no need for an allowance. I'm happy with what you and Mom give me, and I don't want any more than Rose gets.

"Also, I want you to pay for Rose's college and a car for her from the money as well. And what about you and Mom?"

"Edward, we'll provide for Rose's education as we planned to do for yours. We're aware, however, that we wouldn't be able to send you to the best colleges, and we think, given this inheritance, that it would be a travesty to deprive you of that opportunity. As for Rose, I'm sure she can wait until we can afford to buy her a car. And Mom and I don't need new cars, and if and when we do, we'll wait until we have the money, just like we've always done, Son; but thank you for your generosity."

"Then I want the same. I don't want to live like a Winston. I'm a Cullen! At least, that's what you said," I say, aware I'm getting riled up again, but I can't help my sudden pang of insecurity. Mom becomes tearful, while Dad stands to grasp my shoulder.

"Edward, you're our son in every way that counts, but Edward Winston was your biological father; we can't change that. You're entitled to that money, Son. Don't let your pride rob you of what's rightfully yours. But I understand what you've just said— so, no allowance from the trust. And when Rose turns eighteen, and if you still wish to, we'll allow you to buy her a car. But the arrangements for your education stand, and when the time comes for Rose to go to college, we'll do the best by her and use the money we've set aside for both of you. Would that make you happy?"

I nod, fighting the lump in my throat when Mom gets up to hug me. "You _are_ a Cullen, never doubt that," she whispers and then kisses my cheek before turning to leave.

"Finish up in here, you two, then come and join Rose and me. I baked cookies," she says before shutting the door behind her.

That night, I go to bed, thankful to have the matter settled—I don't have to talk or think about it again. I don't want people to know, and Dad, Mom, and Rose assured me that no one outside of our family and our solicitor would know. I haven't said anything, but I'm determined that if I have to accept Edward Winston's guilt money, then, when I get my hands on it, I'm going to make sure I do whatever I can to help my real family.

I'm still angry as hell, but I'm going to do my best to forget Edward Winston.

.

.

Two weeks later, and we've been invited to a party. Well, Em's been, by Susie, a girl who has a crush on him. The rest of us are tagging along. I'm younger than everyone, so I'll probably be the youngest kid there. When I mention this to Em, he laughs out loud. "You have no idea, do you?"

"What?" I ask.

"The girls love you, man!" Alec answers.

"They don't! _Who_?" I demand, sure they're messing with me.

"You'll have your pick tonight!" Em promises and claps me on the back.

"Yeah, you may even lose your cherry!" Liam says, and I glare at him because he's still managing to piss me off. "Don't worry; I won't tell Mommy," he adds.

I lunge and land a solid punch to his nose. He doubles over, blood dripping through his cupped fingers. "You broke my fucking nose," he shouts, his voice muffled, making it sound like dose.

"I warned you to stop dragging my family into your shit."

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Alec suggests, throwing me a wink as he grabs his arm. "Nice!" he mouths so Liam doesn't see.

Later that evening, we're back at The Hangout where Tanya and Victoria join us. Liam's sporting a red and swollen nose, which I doubt was broken, but Alec claims it was and says he straightened it. According to him, he suffered a broken nose twice while playing football and claims he straightened it he second time. That, he says, is how he knows Liam's was broken and how he knew exactly what to do.

I apologize to Liam if I _did_ break his nose, but make it clear I don't regret hitting him. I warn him that if he doesn't stop his bullshit, I'd be happy to break his ugly nose again. He apologizes too, and we agree to forget the incident.

When it's time to leave, we ride in two cars. I go with Em, while Victoria and Alec, who're supposedly dating, and Tanya travel in Liam's car. We all pile out at Susie's house, where the music is already playing at full blast. An hour or so later, the basement is jam-packed. Among the first to arrive, our group managed to snag a sofa and some upturned crates in a corner, so that's where we're hanging out. Em brought beer that he had his cousin buy, and the guys are really getting into it. The girls are drinking some of sweet, alcoholic punch, which looks and smells disgusting. I've had two beers, but I've refused another for now because I don't want to arrive home too obviously drunk.

"Dance with me," Victoria demands, tugging on Alec's arm. "I'm busy, Vic," he says, breaking off from his discussion about cars with a guy who joined us a while ago.

"Em?" she asks, but he shakes his head. "Sorry, Vicki, I see my date approaching." He smirks as he spots Susie making way through the crowd.

"Edward?" she turns to me. " _Please_ , I'm bored with all the talk about cars and sport?"

"I don't dance, Vic," I say.

"Come on, I watched you with Rose on her birthday; you can move." She grabs my hand.

"Just one dance," I say, allowing her to pull me up. She winds her arm around my waist as we make our way to the dance area.

I try to keep a respectable distance between us, but she clings to me like a vine. Each time I step away, she tightens her hold. "Just enjoy yourself, Edward," she says after my third attempt to loosen her hold. It may be just a dance, but I don't want to be this close to Victoria. She's like a sister to me, and it feels wrong. She rubs herself against my crotch suggestively, and, despite my reluctance, my body reacts. I remove her arms from my neck and firmly set her aside.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

"The song ended," I reply abruptly before turning away.

"Come on, Edward, just one more," she cajoles.

"I've had enough, Vic," I tell her and turn away to rejoin the others. Susie's sitting on Em's lap, and he's gripping her hips while sucking on her neck. I realize that beneath her spread skirt, she's grinding against him. Tanya and Liam, in a new yet hardly surprising development, are lip-locked. A pretty blonde, sitting on the other side of Susie and Em, smiles at me and shrugs her shoulders. I guess she's feeling as awkward as I am at being a spectator my friends' heated make-out sessions. Victoria comes to sit next to me, just as the guy who was speaking to Alec leaves. He motions her over. She takes her time, giving first me, and then the girl an odd look, before she straddles Alec's lap like he tells her to.

"Hi, I'm Edward," I finally greet the stranger.

"I'm Megan, Susie's cousin from Texas," she says in an inviting drawl.

"Would you like to dance?" I reply.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **I apologize for any mistakes I may have overlooked when editing this chapter. It's late, nearly 2 a.m. here, and I swear I'm going cross-eyed, I'm so tired.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

* * *

"Holy shit!" I curse, my voice strangled in my throat.

After a couple of dances, during which she grew bolder and bolder, and I, more and more worked up, Megan led me to a bedroom and locked the door. She's nineteen, I discovered while dancing and clearly knows a lot more about sex than I do. And right now, for the first time, a hand other than mine is wrapped around my shaft. She gathers the leaking moisture from the head and slowly twists her hand. Nothing I've experienced or ever done before has felt this good. I let out another strangled groan as she tightens her grasp.

"Let go, Edward, Megan encourages, her lips against mine. "I'm gonna to rock your world," she promises, and, shit, her words and accent make me even harder. She kisses me passionately, doing things with her tongue I'd only imagined before she slides down my body.

"What …" my words are choked off as something much better, wetter, and hotter than her hand engulfs me. "Fuck!" I curse as I look down at the sight of her mouth wrapped around me. It proves almost too much, and I grit my teeth. Please, please don't let me embarrass myself, I silently pray, as I struggle for control.

She releases me with a tiny plopping noise, smiles seductively and then, holding my gaze, lowers her head to lick from base to tip—deliberately and slowly. 'Oh God," I moan, because, apparently, I've forgotten how to form full sentences.

"You taste so good," Megan says, swirling her tongue around my head over and over. She brings me to the brink only to stop and then start again.

I've already lost the ability to speak when, suddenly, she relaxes her throat to take me in all the way. White-hot heat sears its way through my body, and I moan long and loud as she withdraws only to do it again and again until I'm a writhing mass of molten heat.

"Fuck, fuck!" I practically yell as I experience my first orgasm with a girl.

.

.

"Edward?" Mom calls out from the kitchen as I try to sneak upstairs.

"Umm, hi Mom," I answer, hoping she doesn't notice how nervous I sound.

"Come and tell me about your night. Did you have a good time?"

" I did, but I'm tired; I just want to go to bed," I lie.

"Okay, sweetheart. See you in the morning."

I sigh, relieved that she hasn't come out, hasn't caught me smelling of beer and sex. Not that Megan and I _had_ sex, but after what she did for me, I was eager to reciprocate, and she wasn't shy about showing me exactly what she likes. I grin at the memory of how I'd made her, sexually confident as she is, come. It's the first time, also, that I've done that with and to a girl.

At the top of the stairs, I remain careful because I don't want to disturb Dad, who's probably already in bed

"Why are you grinning like a fool?" Rose asks from my bedroom door.

"Shh!" I signal, pointing to our parents' room before pushing past her.

"Eww!" She scrunches her face and follows me. "You stink. What've you been doing?"

"Mind your own business," I say, grabbing a t-shirt and sleep pants before making my way to the bathroom.

"You've been drinking," she accuses me.

"Just a couple of beers."

"You smell like something else too."

"It's smoke; people were smoking."

"Did Emmett smoke?" she asks, wrinkling her nose.

"No; why?"

"Were there girls there?" she demands, ignoring my question.

"It was a party, Rose; there were guys _and_ girls." I open the bathroom door.

"Which girls?"

"Why do you want to know?" I turn to look at her.

"Just asking." She walks away looking upset. I should go and ask what's wrong, but I need to shower and brush my teeth before Mom comes upstairs. It can wait until morning, I decide.

In bed, l get hard just thinking about how good Megan's mouth felt. And I remember the thrill and unexpected pleasure it gave me to touch and taste her, as I watched her flushed body when she came—for _me_.

My hand seems to have developed a mind of its own and is currently wrapped tightly around my increasingly growing shaft. Realizing that Mom, and possibly Rose, could still be wandering around, I quickly lock my door. And then, remembering Liam's embarrassing account of how his mother questioned him about his soiled sheets over breakfast one morning, I grab a discarded t-shirt before returning to bed.

I stifle a groan, my hand moving ever faster at the memory of soft lips and a warm, wet mouth. My body goes rigid, and my toes curl as I come, breathless and panting. And then, while still struggling to regain my breath, I wonder how and when I can arrange to see Megan again

Three days later, when leaving The Hangout, Mitch Jones and his friends accost us.

"I know you stole my hubcaps!" he confronts Alec, getting right in his face. Alec grins, silently challenging him to do something about it. Em, Liam and I step up, and then, of course, Mitch's friends join the party.

"Who'd want anything from that piece of shit you call a car?" Liam goads.

"What did you fucking do with them?" Mitch pushes Alec's shoulder. Alec grabs his shirtfront.

"Don't fucking touch me! Like my friend said, who'd want anything from that scrap heap?" He shoves Mitch roughly, and he retaliates by smashing his fist into Alec's gut.

Mitch kicks Alec while he's still bent over, winded. He's about to do it again, but I punch him on the side of the head; and, before I know it, we're a tangle of fists, arms, and legs. I vaguely notice that people have stopped to watch, but I ignore them. The fury I've been holding in can finally be released, and it feels so goddam good to be pounding someone. Instead of Mitch and his cronies, I see Edward Winston and every slimy man who'd ever walked into our apartment to hurt Elizabeth or intimidate me.

"Go Cullen!" Em yells as I'm straddling one of Mitch's friends, my hands wrapped around his neck. I look up to see him bend over another guy, pulling both of his arms up behind his back. Em's bleeding above his eye, and I suddenly realize I can taste blood; either my nose or lip's bleeding too.

I grin back at Em, and the guy I'm holding lands a blow to my shoulder. I punch him in the face, and I'm about to hit him again, when, suddenly, someone drags me away. I turn around, swinging, only to be confronted by Sergeant O'Connell.

"I'd think before you do that, son," he warns, and I quickly lower my arm, the fight leaving me as I look around to see several police officers surrounding our bloodied, bedraggled group.

"Fuck!" Em yells as he too realizes the mess we're in. I'm already picturing the disappointment on Dad's face and the hurt on Mom's.

"I'm not riding with him!" Alec shouts as he's led away with Mitch. "Shut it," an officer tells him and unceremoniously shoves him into a police car. Em, Liam, and I are squashed into the back of another. We're quiet; our adrenaline-charged high disappeared along with our bravado when the doors slammed shut on us. Me, I'm worried because as good as it felt to land those punches and even take some in return, I can't help feeling ashamed at the thought of how much I've let my parents down.

At the precinct, I find myself in a cell with Alec and one of Mitch's friends, we learn is called Tim. Alec makes a snide remark about Timothy being a pussy name, but he soon shuts up when a huge, tattooed guy tells him it doesn't matter what our names are. He'd make any one of us 'pretty pussies' shout his name, which he says is Bull. He leers and says he hopes one of us ends up as his cellmate. I cringe, a combination of fear and disgust. Not that I care about people's sexual orientation, but I've heard stories about what goes on in jail, and I sure as hell don't want to find out for myself.

His comment incites a couple of the other guys to join in. They look like members of a bikie gang or something. Tim calls for the duty officer and asks to be moved, but Sergeant O'Connell, who appears, just smiles. He says to get used to the company because, if we keep behaving the way we are, we'll be spending a lot more time with people like them.

I don't know how long we sit in that smelly cell, subjected to threats and innuendo, but it must be hours since we were brought in. We're scared, hungry, and I'm sure Alec and Tim are wondering, like me, why our families haven't come to bail us out. Isn't that what's is supposed to happen?

Finally, some time after Tim's father turned up to collect him, Sergeant O'Connell calls my name. I give Alec an encouraging pat on the shoulder and, ignoring Bull's parting taunts, leave that hell hole.

I've never been so grateful and pleased to see Dad. He, however, barely acknowledges me. His expression tells me I'm in a load of trouble. I try to apologize, but he cuts me off, telling me we'll discuss it later. As I wait for my wallet, belt, and shoelaces to be returned, I remember with a shiver, just how scared I'd been when they were taken from me.

The car ride home is silent and awkward. Mom's waiting on the doorstep when we arrive, and it's obvious she's been crying. I feel lower than a snake's belly when I meet her gaze. She wraps her arms around me, and I squeeze back tightly.

"I… I'm sorry, Mom, I whisper, nearly choking on the lump in my throat as I gratefully accept her love.

"Go and shower, Edward. I'm about to serve dinner," Mom says without acknowledging my apology. Rose, who's also been crying, takes my hand as I make my way upstairs.

"Your face…" she touches my cheek. "You look awful, and you're bleeding. What happened?"

"Not now," I answer, sensing her watching me while I collect clean clothes.

"I'm fine," I reassure her. "It was just a little fight with some of Mitch Jones' friends."

"Edward, you were locked up!" Her eyes swim with tears.

"Just for a little while," I say.

"But you were in _jail_ … I don't want my brother to be a criminal."

"I'm not, I won't be, Rose; it was just a stupid mistake."

"Dad's mad at you," she says as if I don't already know.

"I know."

"You're going to be grounded."

"I know."

"Well, at least then you won't come home smelling like girl!" She twists her mouth into a grimace.

"Rose! What do you know about—"

"I'm not stupid, Edward," she cuts me off.

"You'd better not—" I warn, instantly concerned about how she knows about such things.

"Edward, hurry up. Don't you think you've inconvenienced your mother enough for one day?" Dad asks from the doorway. Yep, he's mad all right.

He makes me sweat that night and the next day before he calls me into his study after dinner. Mom's already there and listens solemnly as Dad lectures me on how useless and dangerous fighting is. He threatens to take me down to the morgue to view the bodies of other stupid teenagers who've ended up there because of the same kind of reckless behavior. He says it's not only reckless; it's also criminal and asks how I felt sitting in that jail cell.

I don't lie, I tell him how scared I'd been, and also that I'd realized, while sitting there, just how stupid I'd been. Dad asks how we got into the fight, so I explain.

"Loyalty is something to be admired, but being blindly loyal is foolish, Edward. You can't just follow your friends; you have to think for yourself, be your own person," he says. I readily agree, telling him that I'd reached that conclusion myself. I apologize to him and Mom once more. Dad's eyes soften as I speak, and I'm grateful that they both still see some redeeming features in me.

"Son, you're smart; smart beyond your years. Your mother and I don't want to see you waste your life away. You need to think of the consequences, not only of your actions but also of those around you. Do you understand what I mean? You can't adopt a pack mentality when you're out with your friends. I don't want to dictate you who you should be friends with, or stop you from seeing the boys you hang around with because they're all good kids at heart, but stealing hubcaps is wrong. It's a crime; don't mistake it for some teenage prank. And fighting? It's dangerous, stupid, and criminal. People who resort to violence do so because they can't articulate their feelings or sort out differences like reasonable human beings. We expect so much more from you."

"Tell me what's really going on with you?" Mom asks. "You're not getting into fights simply because your friends are." I'm about to brush her off with my standard response of 'nothing's wrong', but I owe my parents the truth.

"I don't know, Mom. I'm just so angry all the time, and when that guy punched Alec, I saw red.

"I'm making an appointment for you to see Siobhan. Your anger's understandable—you're a teenage boy battling hormones, and that's unsettling enough, but you're also struggling to come to terms with your past. You can't do it on your own, sweetheart. You need help to channel your frustrations into the right areas."

I open my mouth to object to therapy. "Don't argue, Son, this isn't a negotiation," Dad intervenes. "You're also grounded for a month. You're to go to school and come straight home, no detours and no excuses. You can have friends over after two weeks, but no more than two at a time, and you're not allowed outings. Is that clear?"

I accept my punishment; I know I've gotten off lightly. The next day at school, I learn that Liam's been grounded for two weeks, while Alec and Em get off lightly. They were each grounded for a week, lost their allowances— Em for two weeks, and Alec for a week. Once my ban on having friends over is lifted, Em spends a lot of time with me, even weekends. I'd expected him to go out with Alec, Liam, and his other friends, but he seems happy to hang out at home with me.

Rose is around us all the time, too. I've repeatedly told her to leave us alone, find something else to do, but Em surprises me, yet again, by insisting that he doesn't mind her company. I notice that she blushes a lot around him, and he treats her with the kind of consideration he doesn't even show the girls he dates. He must miss having a baby sister, I decide.

The worse thing about being grounded is that I don't get to meet up with Megan again. I'd been looking forward to the things she promised we'd do, but in the last week of my house arrest, Em tells me she's returned home. So, it's back to my own hand; but at least, now, I have something real to fantasize about.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading.**

 **Happy Labor Day to my American friends. Enjoy your weekend and stay safe, everyone!**

 **I'd like to also thank those readers who continue to express interest in my published books. I was asked this week whether it is possible to leave a review on Amazon if the book hadn't been purchased from that site. For others, who may be unsure; the answer is yes. As long as you've read the published books, you are entitled to leave a review. Amazon's system notes whether the book was purchased from there.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

* * *

'Shhh…"

Mommy pulls me close, but I still jump when the mean man bangs on the door. I'm scared it will break. "I know you're in there!" he shouts, and Mommy holds me tighter.

"He'll go soon," she whispers. She's scared like me; I know because her hand is shaking.

I'm really, really scared when the door rattles. He bangs louder and says bad words—words Mommy said are very bad and that I should never repeat even though I hear grown-ups use them. "I'll be back!" he shouts, his voice so scary, it makes me shiver.

It's quiet now, but we stay behind the sofa for a long time before Mommy lets go of me. She makes the sign to be quiet and crawls to the door, and, then, after she puts her ear against it to listen, she stands to look through the peephole. She turns around and smiles at me, but her eyes are sad.

"It's okay, Edward," Mommy picks me up and kisses my cheek. "I'll have the money next week; we'll be okay," she says over and over.

"And were you?" Siobhan's asks, her voice pulling me back to the present.

"No. The guy returned with two others—one was the man responsible for Elizabeth changing," I say, scratching at a worn spot on the knee of my jeans. I sense her watching me, but I don't look up. I'm tired of talking about this shit.

"And that's your earliest memory of your mother?" she presses, her persistence really pissing me off now.

"No; I have other memories, but they're not clear." Elizabeth smiling at me, cuddling me, how happy we were before she changed—but I don't share that.

"And how old were you at the time of that incident?"

"Around five… six maybe."

"Edward, look at me," Siobhan says and waits silently when I don't respond. I know she won't give up. So I grudgingly do, hating that she'll see how close I am to crying. Liam would call me a pussy. I'm seventeen; I should be over all of this by now, shouldn't I? I have a family, a _real_ family now, but it doesn't matter how happy they make me or how hard I try; my fucking memories keep pulling me back to that time.

"She loved you, Edward," Siobhan says as if it's a fact, as if she'd know. How the fuck would she? She wasn't there; she didn't feel what it was like being ignored, sent to bed hungry as her mother _entertained_ men, as her mother's eyes glazed over until she completely lost sight of her child.

"Sure, she did. Are we done for the day?" I ask, trying to keep my sarcasm in check because if Siobhan tells Mom I'm not cooperating, I'll be stuck in this hell called therapy for longer. More than that, though, I know how much getting a bad report would hurt Mom; and I don't want that because I'd do almost anything for my mother. Well, this mother; because, as much as I may have wanted to, I couldn't do anything for the other.

In one of our early sessions, Siobhan asked why I never refer to Elizabeth as 'Mom' or 'mother'. 'Why do you always call your biological mother Elizabeth or simply _her_ in that dismissive tone?" I think her exact words were. I shrugged, not wanting to discuss my feelings. Siobhan told me, then, that I was emotionally distancing myself, that it was my way of denying my hurt and repressed anger. She said it was a way for me to deny that I loved Elizabeth, that I _love_ her, and that she'd loved me. After that, I refused to discuss her or anything relating to my time with her again.

Today, after a month of avoidance, four weeks of feeling angry and, yes, I admit, resentful at her questioning, Siobhan's probing proved too much. The memories refused to be ignored, and without meaning to, I found myself talking.

Each session, leading up to this point, I'd felt like she'd deliberately been picking at old wounds just to see them bleed again, and, so, my irritatation had increased with each session. But her methods, which, by the way, I still think stinks, have worked just as she must have known they would. She's a psychologist, like Mom; and if I'm to believe Mom, one of the best.

Mom once called Siobhan the earth mother type, and I suppose she's right because beneath the flowing skirts, multiple rings, and dangly earrings she is motherly. But don't be fooled, like I'd stupidly been at first, by her gentle smile and conciliatory approach. She's like a terrier with a bone, gnawing away, relentless in her determination to make you talk about shit you'd rather forget.

Fight all you like; she just keeps coming back, sitting there, observing your every reaction, asking question after damned question. It doesn't matter if you curse or walk out, the next time, she asks the same thing. She never quits until she gets an answer.

Like Mom, Siobhan has a gentle, caring nature that hides an unstoppable resolve. It's something to do with the jobs they do, I suppose, or maybe people like them gravitate to work like theirs. Social workers and therapists must need those characteristics to deal with the shit people like me dish up to them every day.

"Yes, Edward, we're done for today," Siobhan answers. "It was a good start—finally. We'll revisit this conversation next week," she adds with a note of warning. I nod, not willing to fight her right now: I just want to get out of here.

Rose is watching T.V. when I get home. "How was it?" she asks when I flop down on the sofa next to her.

"Fine," I say, reaching for the remote, but she avoids me.

"Don't lie; you're upset," she persists.

I'm okay," I sigh, knowing just how useless any attempt to resist her probing would be. "Siobhan just pissed me off as usual. She got me to talk about Elizabeth."

"How did you feel about that?" she asks, something I'd expect from Mom. I sometimes wonder if Rose's impairment makes her more sensitive to things.

"Shitty. I hate talking about her, and I hated it even more that Siobhan tried to convince me she loved me. That's just bullshit— how the hell would she know?" I look away, feeling myself get emotional all over again.

"Hey!" Rose grabs my chin, forcing me to look at her. "Then tell Siobhan; she could help. "

"She can't. _No one_ can make it better, Rosalie. Anyway, it's all in the past. I don't want to think about it, and I sure as shit don't want to talk about it, especially to some stranger. Just drop the subject, okay?" Angry, I raise my voice, and she scowls at me.

"What are you two shouting about?" Mom demands as she walks in.

"Edward's being pig-headed like always," Rose says, and Mom raises her eyebrows at me.

"It's nothing. Rose is just being a pushy busybody _like always_." I glare at her, warning her not to say anything more.

She waits until Mom turns before raising her middle finger. Yes, flipping someone the bird is the same in sign language, Rose and I both discovered when we decided to learn ASL curse words. The deaf community, I also learned, has and uses profanity as much as the rest of us.

I retaliate by mouthing 'bitch', but Mom catches me. "Edward, please don't use that word, especially, when speaking to or about your sister!"

"You didn't see what she said," I grumble. Mom turns to Rose, who stares back angelically. "What?" she asks.

"I'm watching the pair of you," Mom warns before going upstairs.

.

.

It's been three weeks since Siobhan first got me discuss Elizabeth. I turned up for my next therapy session as evasive and uncooperative as ever—as if that incident hadn't happened— but she saw through my bullshit and, finally running out of patience, called me out on it last week. "These sessions aren't for my benefit, Edward, and you don't have to work with me; but I'd be remiss in my professional duty if I failed to recommend that you continue to work with _someone_ ," she said. And so, out of concern about my parents' disappointment and faced with the potential of indefinite therapy, potentially with someone new, I opened up. I talked about how mad I still am about Elizabeth's choices, her death, and how much I hate Edward Winston, his money, and what it represents.

When Siobhan failed to convince me that Elizabeth had loved me and that Winston had tried, if belatedly, to make amends for his past behavior, she changed tack. She turned her attentions to helping me explore how I could come to terms with my feelings about Winston because, despite her insistence that I hadn't dealt with my feelings about Elizabeth, I insisted that he was the reason mad all the time. Instead of discussing either of Elizabeth or Winston, she explored ways I could use my anger as motivation to become the best man I could be. A man nothing like my biological father, she cunningly said.

"You say the only positive thing you gained from what you've learned about Edward Winston and the inheritance he left you is that the law can serve the less privileged in society? Tell me why you think that?" Siobhan presses, and then, as she always does, sits back, watches… and waits.

I huff out a frustrated breath. We've been over this point many times; I wish she'd just tell me what she thinks because as sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, she has an opinion. But she won't, and I know by now that it's pointless avoiding the question.

"Edward Winston was _not_ my father; he was a sperm donor," I correct her. "And yes, that's the only positive thing that's happened since we first heard from his lawyer and our trip to New York. Oh wait, that's not true. I enjoyed seeing the sights with my real Dad. But, do you know what _the_ most positive thing was? It was when I found out Edward Winston died."

"Edward, I know you don't actually find enjoyment in someone's death," she says, not an admonishment, she's stating a fact.

"Okay, maybe I wasn't happy that he died, but I was fucking ecstatic that I didn't have to meet the coward." She doesn't bat an eyelid at my language, which tells me she's determined not to get sidetracked.

"Tell me again how you came to the realization about the law," she asks, so I tell her how, weeks ago, we received a letter from Deborah, Winston's widow, informing us of their intention to contest my inclusion in his will. I, of course, wanted Dad to write back to say that they're welcome to the money. But he told me he had no intention of relinquishing a cent of what he insisted was my entitlement. He met with his lawyer, and together, they decided to respond by informing the Winstons that we welcomed their action; in turn, our letter stated, we'd counterclaim for my rightful share of Winston's nearly billion and a half dollar fortune.

In the end, they didn't contest the will. Instead, we received another letter from their solicitor demanding that we don't capitalize on the Winston name in any way and that my relationship with the family not be made public knowledge. Dad instructed his lawyer to respond, informing them that their request had been unnecessary because we would never, under any circumstances, blemish the Cullen name by associating it with that of the Winstons. He demanded, in turn, that they not reveal my relationship to their family. We've received no communication from them since.

"When we received that first letter, and Dad refused to return the money, I thought, because they were rich and powerful, they'd ride all over us," I tell Siobhan. "But Dad and his lawyer took them on and won. I liked that; I like that the law is based on fact, that our lawyer beat the big-gun firm from New York. A good lawyer, no matter where he's from, can prove the difference in someone getting justice or not."

Siobhan contemplates me; her mouth turned up in a small, almost smug smile. "What? You think I'm spouting garbage," I challenge.

"Not at all. I'm amazed and pleased if you must know. Edward, that's the first time I've seen you so animated about anything other than your family. Don't you see the possibilities?"

"What possibilities?"

"You were so passionate about your discovery regarding the way the law works, or _should_ work. You could turn that interest into helping others, just as your dad's lawyer did. Channel your anger and frustration into something productive rather than destructive because that's all you've been doing up till now. You're a brilliant student; you could get into almost any law school in the country if you put your mind to it. Just think about it, Edward," she says, and, then, as I remain silent, announces that our time is up.

I stand, almost unconsciously, and unlike each time before, I feel reluctant to leave. Equally surprising is that I'm not seething with resentment. Instead, I find my mind already spinning, thinking about the possibilities she's presented.

"You see it, don't you?" Siobhan's eyes gleam with excitement as she too stands.

"I do," I say, giving her a smile, probably the first genuine one since meeting her

* * *

 **Thank you, as always, for reading :)**

 **For those interested in the published character version of this story; Lost is available to read on my website. This latest chapter will be up by tomorrow morning.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

I thought about that conversation with Siobhan for weeks, and the more time passed, the more the idea of becoming a lawyer excited me. I spent almost every waking hour thinking about and researching the areas of law practice. It didn't take me long to decide that I wanted to become a prosecutor. To me, it just made sense; after all, what better way is there to ensure victims receive justice than stop the criminals who harmed them?

For the first time since starting therapy, I looked forward to my sessions with Siobhan, eager to explore the possibilities she'd presented. It was hardly surprising, given her occupation, that she turned our discussion to my motivation for wanting to become a lawyer. Without even realizing it, I found myself, for the first time, openly talking about how witnessing Elizabeth prostitute herself, and then turn to drugs had made me feel. 'Angry—helpless,' I said.

"So you felt like a victim?" Siobhan probed, and my first response had, predictably, been, 'no, I was just mad.'

'You just told me you felt helpless, Edward,' she pointed out before I could answer, and I reluctantly conceded that I had felt that way. "Did you think Elizabeth was helpless?" she asked.

'When they hurt her, yes; but she didn't have to let them in,' I argued. Elizabeth _had_ tried to keep them out, my subconscious chose to remind me, but I stubbornly refused to acknowledge the facts and fought off the memory my treacherous mind, despite my efforts to stop it, threw at me.

Visions of the man with black hair in his dark suit and shiny shoes as he followed the two who'd broken down our door into our home. The memory of Elizabeth's tight grip, the tremble of her hand as she held me close. His disdainful glance around our tiny living room before he turned his gaze on us; his smile that didn't reach his eyes, his hateful voice as he spoke.

'Mrs. Masen, I'm here to talk,' he said.

'It's M…Miss Masen…'Elizabeth stammered, 'and this is my son, Edward.'

'Well, Miss Masen, I'm the owner of this building, and you haven't been paying your rent,' he said, hardly sparing me a glance, and, although his tone had been soft and even, it did little to diminish the sense of dread I felt.

Elizabeth tried do reassure him that she wasn't trying to get out of paying rent. 'I'll pay as soon as I can, Mr. …' she said, her voice quivering as she appealed.

'My name doesn't matter," he told her, 'but I can't allow anyone, not even a beautiful woman like you, to get away with not paying their debt. Why don't you get rid of the boy so you and I can negotiate a settlement?'

Elizabeth sent me to my room with a promise that everything was all right. 'I'll come and get you soon,' she said, but it was quite a while before she returned, and when she did, her eyes were red from crying. That man visited often after that, and even then, at five, I could tell she'd been terrified of him. So, yes, she probably had been a victim, but I can't believe she'd been entirely helpless. She could have called the police; we could have moved, surely? Mom's tried, several times over the years, to talk to me about Elizabeth, but I can't and I won't. I refuse to revisit that crappy part of my life, and I won't let Elizabeth off the hook. She fucked up our lives with her shitty choices.

Siobhan, sensing my imminent withdrawal, didn't pursue the matter. Instead, she asked how I felt when finding out about Edward Winston and his abandonment of us.

'I accept that he didn't love her, that he didn't want to stay with her; but he could have helped her financially— _obviously_ —,' I replied, my voice coated with bitterness. 'I mean, I don't need or want his money now, but Elizabeth needed it then.'

'So you think Edward took advantage of Elizabeth?' she asked.

'Well, yes.'

'What about the men who visited?' she pressed.

'She had a goddamned choice; she didn't have to see them!' I raised my voice.

'She may not have felt she had. She may have thought it was her only choice,' Siobhan countered evenly. I obstinately refused to consider her view.

'Whether you agree with me now or never, Edward, I think you'll come to realize that the reason you're so passionate about prosecution is that you relate to the victims you claim you want to help. I also think your pain at what happened to Elizabeth factors into your choice, whether consciously or not. But, whatever your motives, I think you'd make a brilliant lawyer, no matter which legal path you choose to follow.'

I only had one other therapy session after that. I still don't accept Siobhan's views that Elizabeth believed she had no choice other than to give in to those men, but I'm grateful that she ignited my interest in studying law.

I announced my decision to Mom and Dad that night. Overjoyed would be and understatement when describing their reaction. I don't think it was necessarily my career choice that thrilled them—I suspect a great deal of their enthusiasm was because they felt I'd turned a corner in dealing with my anger.

With Dad's help, I planned my post-high school path. He repeated his views about taking advantage of my inheritance. 'Of course, you could get your law degree at any number of colleges, Son, but why not aim for the best?' And then, he played his trump card, which I'm sure he'd kept up his sleeve. Hell, he'd probably always planned on using it at a moment just like that. 'Use Edward Winston's money to prove you're equal to him and anyone from his background,' he said, and I folded.

So, together, we researched the top law schools in the country and their acceptance criteria. I quickly learned that obtaining the prerequisite undergrad degree wouldn't be enough. To qualify for any one of the top six, I'd have to achieve exceptional undergrad GPA and LSAT scores. Included in the many sources of advice provided for those hoping to get into any of the elite law schools was the need to build relationships with undergrad professors because good recommendations from them could, apparently, provide an edge.

'Participate in extra-curricular activities', another article read, despite having warned, a couple of sentences before, that if you were serious about gaining admission to one of the elite schools, there would be little time for girlfriends or boyfriends. A healthy social life, it stated, would be non-existent.

'Are you sure you want to do this, Edward?' Dad asked me at least twice during that time. 'There are many other career paths,' he assured me.

'I'm sure,' I said without hesitation, and talk turned where I should apply for my undergrad degree, and which of the top six law schools I should then submit applications to. We narrowed it down to Harvard, Yale, Stanford, Columbia, New York, and Chicago.

'Do you have a preference,' Dad asked during a family discussion on the matter.

'Harvard,' I said.

'Why?' Mom immediately asked, and I knew what bothered her. She wondered why, given Edward Winston's history there and my feelings for him, I'd chosen it. I'm not exactly sure; there's the prestige associated with Harvard, it's law school and its long history, of course. And it's on our doorstep, so it made sense for it to be my first choice—but there's more to it than that. Deep down, I think, it's because I don't only want to do as Dad suggested and prove myself the equal of anyone from Winston's world—somehow, even though he's not around to see it, I want to spit in Edward Winston's eye, metaphorically speaking, naturally. And what better way to do it than in a place he once walked, where he may well have completed his studies if Elizabeth hadn't fallen pregnant—with me.

I want to better his academic achievements. I want to prove that, ultimately, I'm smarter than he ever was because, yes, despite Siobhan's counseling and the months that have passed since learning of his existence, I still loathe the man.

But that was four years ago—four years that feels like a lifetime ago now. In that time, I graduated high school, earned my undergraduate degree in political science, and had enough sex to satisfy even that horny seventeen-year-old, who once dreamed of the promises made by a Southern girl with a seductive drawl.

My studies were always my priority, but I haven't exactly been a monk. Not that I'd been overly loose about sex, well, not when compared to some of my friends and fellow students. I've had my share of casual sex, but unlike many of my peers, I haven't deliberately treated girls badly. I certainly haven't taken advantage of anyone. I've been meticulously honest and upfront about not wanting a permanent relationship. The women involved claimed to understand and accept that—many, in fact, agreed they wanted the same thing.

I _have_ had three relationships, though; the first and longest had been with Natalie Jones, my high school crush. No promises were made; each of the girls and I, without discussion, simply fell into an exclusive dating pattern. None of those relationships lasted longer than six months, primarily due to me, because the moment I sensed they wanted more, I ended it. I didn't intend being a bastard; I simply didn't want to prolong a misunderstanding. Emmett calls me a serial monogamist, and I suppose the description fits because I don't condone cheating. I just don't get why people do that. Why enter into a relationship only to cheat?

I haven't met someone I've felt I wanted to make a long-term commitment to, but the fact is, I'm also not ready for one; it's just too distracting, given my goals. Maintaining a relationship could have been possible while in college, but, by all accounts, studies over the next three years of my life promises to be all-consuming. Making a commitment to anyone while in law school would be the height of stupidity in my view.

And so, here I am, on orientation day, my first official day at Harvard Law School, at the start of what I've been warned will be the most grueling year of my academic life. 'It's not like your freshman year in college,' Will, HLS graduate and now a colleague of Dad's lawyer, said when taking me on a tour of the school at the start of summer.

'Attendance isn't optional, and you can't get by with rewording a professor's presentation. You'll be expected to wade through mountains of reading material—I mean _hours_ and hours until your eyes glaze over and your head spins.

'And then, even if you're lucky enough to have remembered everything you've read, there's no guarantee you'll get a good grade because you can't just regurgitate it. You'll need to apply what you've learned to test cases, and grades are based entirely on the results of one exam at the end of the semester.

'And another thing; don't depend on support from other students, because, despite what everyone tells you about camaraderie, this place is _highly_ competitive. Almost everyone turns into an asshole!' he added for good measure.

His comments did surprise me because, although, I expected and was prepared to be challenged academically, I didn't think it would be _that_ different to college. There, I'd coped with the workload, achieved the grades I set out to, and I'd still had time to casually date and spend time with my friends.

Will's, wasn't the only warning I received; everything I read on the subject seemed a repeat of his words. So, after talking it through with Mom and Dad, I decided to find a One L tutor to work with through the summer. One L, that's what Harvard first-year law students are called, I discovered. With Dad's help again, I found Jenna, a retired, lawyer. I liked her immediately; she has a no-nonsense attitude, calls a spade a spade, and doesn't gloss over the truth. "You'll find out about the good bits soon enough. What I don't want is for you to be ill-prepared for the things that will make a difference to you graduating or not," she said at our first meeting.

Since then, Jenna's helped me to better understand what I'm in. She's schooled me on what she described as some the toughest legal concepts I'd encounter in my first year. We discussed the differences in our adversarial legal system where the courts act in the capacity of impartial umpire in the contest between prosecution and defense as opposed to the inquisitorial system, which many other countries adhere to. In that system, the courts play an active role in investigating the facts. We debated the merits and pitfalls of each system, and we spent hours, days really, discussing and then testing each principle she introduced. They were, as she'd promised, challenging, some more than others, but I found myself fascinated by every aspect of the law. I spent almost every free hour trying to absorb as much knowledge as I could.

I refused so many invitations to go out that Alec and Liam accused me of turning into a nerd. I ignored them, knowing they were only joking because we're all finding our way in the world and pursuing our dreams. Emmett's always been fascinated by old buildings. 'Everyone uses them, but hardly anyone thinks about the people who built them. Something of those people remains in those places even hundreds of years later, I can feel it, you know? I want to do that—leave something solid behind when I'm gone,' he said when, just before graduating high school, we discussed what we wanted to do. Em now has a degree in construction engineering. Alec studied hospitality management and works in a pub, which he intends buying from his uncle when he retires. Liam, car crazy as ever, is now a mechanical engineer. His dream is to own a luxury car and restoration business one day.

The difference between their current situation and mine is that they've either started or are about to embark on their chosen careers; I still have three years of study ahead of me. So, over summer, while they were out, enjoying themselves, I was hard at work with Jenna, preparing for this day. Of course, that wasn't the only preparation. Before that, I'd had to the tedious task of completing and then submitting applications for eight law schools, the top six, plus Boston College and Pen, which I included as backups. Overkill many, even my family, had said, but I'd been hell-bent on taking no risks.

I received my acceptance from HLS in March, and, with it, the other applications became moot. Then, I had to arrange housing, parking, submit a locker request—the list seemed endless.

Mom's delight at my acceptance to Harvard had been dashed by my announcement that I planned to live on campus. It sparked yet another round of lively discussion within my family. Dad supported me, saying it would be good for developing independence. I know he'd also been secretly pleased because he had, on more than one occasion, expressed concern about Alec and, particularly, Liam's partying ways and the possible negative influence it may have on my studies. Mom, of course, was vehemently opposed to me leaving home. 'You coped while in college,' she pointed out.

Rose, seeing my potential for independence as a precedent for hers when the time came, tried to argue that living on campus was key to staying focused. 'Stay out of this, Rosalie; I know what you're up to,' Mom warned, having seen through her ploy.

In the end, and only after I'd repeatedly promised to come home for a weekly visit, Mom relented and promptly assumed the task of researching accommodation. Then, having presented me with her findings, she ignored my protests that I'd be happy to share a bathroom. Mom insisted that I apply for a large, single room in North Hall because, there, every dorm has a bathroom. I said a standard room would be fine, but she ignored me again, waving the already completed application under my nose to sign. She also suggested, and Dad, probably not wanting another lengthy debate, agreed that I should move to a studio apartment at Mass Avenue in my second year. Mass Avenue is one of three Victorian houses converted into student apartments. Only returning students, apparently, are eligible to live there; otherwise, I have no doubt, Mom would have insisted I apply to move in immediately.

'Mom, I'll be perfectly happy with the large single room at North you've just sold me on,' I said.

'Edward, do you remember how much work it took to get into law school, how you kept telling Rose to turn her music down, to not stomp around— how much privacy you just recently argued you'd need to study?' Mom asked.

'Yes, of course,' I said.

'Well, you're going to need much more to get through law school; so don't argue,' she answered, and I shut up, knowing when I'm defeated.

Mom and Rose embarked on several shopping expeditions, for mattress covers—after discovering the dorm mattresses have a plastic cover—bedding, towels, and toiletries. They also bought cleaning products, a fan, laundry basket, even a plant because, according to Rose, 'the apartment needs a living thing; goodness knows, you're hardly human when studying.'

I thought most of the items were unnecessary, but, again, I kept quiet, knowing they were as much for Mom's peace of mind as they were for my comfort. I moved into my dorm room, yesterday, and my family arrived in force to help me settle in. Laden down with more things Mom thought would make me feel 'more at home', their bounty included basic food, snacks, and enough homemade cookies, I swear, would last an entire semester.

When they left after wishing me luck, and after Mom had me promise, yet again, that I'd visit the following weekend, I wandered around the space that would be home for almost a year. I familiarized myself with where they'd stored everything, and then reread the pamphlet I received in the mail some weeks ago. In it, One L's are instructed to report to the designated administration building at ten o'clock for registration preceding the start of orientation and some preliminary instruction. During the familiarization program, which takes place over three days, we One L's, will have the school to ourselves; upper-year students will arrive over the weekend, in time for the start of classes on Monday

Satisfied that I knew what to do and where to go in the morning, I showered, silently thanking Mom that I didn't have to wait in turn to use a bathroom. I settled down to watch T.V. and reminded myself that it would probably be one of the few, if not the last occasion, I'd be able to indulge in that pastime for a while.

I slept remarkably well, given my unfamiliar surroundings and woke early, grateful for the coffee and basic breakfast supplies that Mom and Rose had provided. After breakfast, I showered, got dressed and then read over the keynotes Jenna helpfully provided. That was twenty minutes ago, too early, then, to leave, so I passed the time by making my bed and cleaning my little kitchenette—Rose would be impressed.

It's still early I realize as I shut my door, but what the hell, I'm too nervous to wait around any longer. It's obvious, though, when I get there, that I'm not the only one anxious to get the day started because the administration building's already bustling with students. I'm welcomed and handed a wad of forms and pamphlets on entering, and then another person, who asks my name, directs me to a classroom, where, I'm told, students in my section are gathering.

Each year, One L's are divided into seven sections, each around eighty students, depending on intake numbers. So, I'll be sharing all my classes with the seventy-nine or so people I'm about to meet. The only exception will be in the spring when we're required to undertake a single elective course.

Outside the room where section three—my group— are assembling, I join the disjointed line of students waiting to enter. "Abandon hope all who enter here," the guy ahead of me comments wryly. I can't help smiling.

"Jasper Whitlock," he says, offering his hand.

"Edward Cullen," I tell him, shaking it briefly just as we reach the doorway.

Inside, the rest of my section, my colleagues, potentially friends and, if Will is to be believed, my rivals, are settling in. Some have gathered in small groups to talk, but most are seated and sorting through the documentation in their orientation packs. I spot a guy, Doug, I know from my undergrad class, and I'm about to make my way over to him when someone else I know joins him.

Heather's the best friend of Kelly, a girl I'd been seeing on and off about eighteen months ago. I wouldn't call what Kelly and I did dating because I'd never actually asked her out. We met at a party and, well, one thing led to another. We ran into each other on several occasions after and enjoyed a repeat performance. I liked her but after our third or fourth hook up, I suspected that she'd had a change of heart and wanted more. Kelly was upset when, the next time we met and she invited me back to her room, I told her as diplomatically as I could that it wouldn't be a good idea. She's never spoken to me since, and, Heather, who I'd gotten along well with, supported her friend and also stopped talking to me.

To avoid any awkwardness, I take a seat across from them out of her line of sight. Jasper sits beside me and, again, initiates conversation while we complete the seemingly endless registration forms. I learn that he attended Harvard for his post- grad degree in philosophy. "So did I; political science," I say.

"I considered it; in fact, I was pushed to do it, but I refused. I endure enough politics at home, but more than anything, I wanted to piss my father off," he says, smiling at what I can only imagine must be a memory of one or more such occasions. I realize he could be related to Senator Joshua Whitlock. I ask.

"My father," he answers. 'He has ambitions for me to follow in his footsteps; well, I share those goals. We just differ on how I should get there," he adds with another knowing smile.

I also learn that Jasper and his friend, James, are also rooming in North and are planning a move to either Mellon Street or Mass Avenue in their second year. "That's him," he says as a guy enters the room. He looks around, spots Jasper, and comes over. The seats on either side of us are occupied, so he slips into the row behind us.

"James Martin," Jasper performs introductions, " this is Edward Cullen."

"Hey," James replies and takes my extended hand. Jasper informs him that I'm also at North.

"Are you planning on staying there for the duration?" James asks, and I tell them that I've applied to move to Mass Avenue the following year.

"Great," Jasper answers. "I sense we're going to be good friends."

But, somehow, despite his apparent sincerity, and both his and James' friendliness, I hold reservations. He's a Whitlock and he and James, I've learned, have been friends since childhood. We don't run in the same circles, and I'm not sure that we have enough in common to become friends. Also, I can't help recalling Will's warning about everyone at law school turning out to be an asshole.

* * *

 **Thanks, as always, for reading :)**

 **My apologies for not posting before the weekend, but I'm still running behind on editing Angel and Destiny (the last books in the** Counsel **series) for publication. To those readers who are reading both this version and the one depicting the published characters' on my website. Chapter Seven will be available there by end of day tomorrow.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

"I can't wait to get out of here," James declares, echoing my sentiment as we leave our contracts lecture, the last before Thanksgiving.

It's been nearly three months to the day since orientation, and everything I'd been told about the exhaustive coursework, the endless hours of reading, the pressure, and the ever-present awareness of the need to succeed, has proven true. There have been times when I'd been so tired, my brain so fried, that I'd fallen asleep fully clothed only to wake, shower, and do it all over again. About a month in, wondering how I'd cope, I called Jenna. She repeated the advice she'd given me before. "As busy as you are, as impossible as it seems to spare the time, you _have_ to take a break, Edward. Mingle with your classmates, also other students because you'll need to escape the law vacuum to survive.

"How often have you seen your family?" she asked, and I sheepishly confessed that I'd skipped going home on two occasions, choosing, instead, to stay on campus and work for fear of falling behind.

"Could you have done that at home?" she asked.

"I could have, I suppose," I admitted.

"There's no supposition, Edward. You may not have gotten through as much, but you would probably have remembered more because of the mental relief interacting with your family provided. Those breaks, no matter how small or infrequent, are necessary. Doing things other than studying is vital to your capacity to cope. The trick is to recognize which activities have the potential to become distractions and which benefit you. You're smart and disciplined; you'll soon learn the differences.

"And most importantly, remember it's a marathon, not a sprint. Everything you do now is to prepare you for your final exam— _that's_ the one that counts," she reminded me.

I followed Jenna's advice and made a concerted effort to get to know members of my section other than Jasper and James. I introduced myself to other residents in North Hall and occasionally wandered down to the communal living room for a break. I even ventured into the wider Harvard student community, where I met and befriended two students. Brooke, in the last year of her pre-med degree, and Max, who's studying English Lit, and I, now meet for coffee for an hour each week. Sometimes, one or more of their friends joins us. I've even succumbed to James' constant requests and attended a party with him and Jasper.

I've been careful to keep my social activities to a minimum and despite the opportunities presented, I have, with the notable exception of that one party, refrained from acting on the chance to have sex. It's a far cry from my undergrad years, but I keep telling myself I can refrain. "It's not forever," I remind myself each time James regales us with tales of his exploits. So, I'm back to being well acquainted with my hand. It saves me from temptation. Well, it's a piss-poor substitute for sex, but it takes the edge off and allows me to stick to my strict study regimen because every day counts toward being prepared for that crucial, final exam.

"Are you doing anything special, Edward?" Jasper asks, interrupting my thoughts.

"Spending time with my family and friends," I tell him. "What about you?"

"Well, unlike you, I can't wait to get away from my family, so on Friday James and I are joining a friend, who has the use of their parents' Hamptons home. You're welcome to come too," he offers.

"There'll be a houseful of hot, _eager_ women—just what I need to end my sexual drought," James adds gleefully.

"You managed to fit in plenty of sex over the last months, despite your constant complaints about our workload," Jasper laughs.

"Not nearly enough, but sure as hell more than you two," he goads. "Jasper, at least, has gotten himself some, although, in my view, he's still not capitalizing on the opportunities. But you, Edward—I don't know how you can refuse so many offers. What the fuck's wrong with you?"

"I like sex as much as the next guy, but I'm not about to jeopardize my studies," I tell him, not for the first time.

Jasper, James, and I spend a lot of time together, we get along well, and we have become friends, just as Jasper predicted on that first day. I was also right in my assessment that we don't have much in common. The fact that we live in the same building, are members of the same section, attend the same lectures every day—our overall shared experiences at law school—are what drives the friendship.

They're both smart and ambitious, understandably; otherwise, they wouldn't have made it to HLS. But James isn't as driven as Jasper, whose natural ability to succeed is heavily influenced by his father's expectations. Senator Joshua Whitlock, I learned, expects his son to take over his seat when he retires, which he plans to do as soon as Jasper's ready to run—or. as I read it, as soon as they're certain Jasper will win. He's expected to move beyond state politics and onto the national stage because Joshua, ultimately, expects his son to become president. While Jasper shares his father's ambitions, he doesn't always agree with his father's ideas on how to achieve those goals. It's obvious to me that their difference of opinion is a bone of contention. Jasper, I've discovered, will often make a considered decision to rebel against his father's wishes. That's why, although he doesn't party as hard as James, he does so just enough to piss the senator off without risking his goals.

James doesn't face with the same pressure. Sure, he's expected to succeed, and he will, given his family's wealth and influence and the fact that his grandfather's a senior partner in a very successful law firm. He can afford the lax approach to his studies that he displays. He hardly, if ever, refuses an invitation to a party and, by all accounts, indulges himself sexually at every given opportunity. Despite only rarely having been present in social settings where James has been on the prowl, I'm not impressed by what I've seen or by the way he speaks of his conquests after. He doesn't treat women with respect, in my view; and he sure as hell doesn't like being told no by any female he targets for his attention.

"Well, I think you're nuts— _both_ of you—" he says in response to my comment, and then, as we round the corner to our dorm building, suddenly stops. "Fuck! Who's that?" he exclaims, his attention riveted on the entrance.

"That," I reply, my tone laced with warning, is my sister.

I rush over to greet Rose. "What are you doing here?" I ask.

"I thought I'd help you pack," she signs.

"I can pack, Rose!" I answer, also signing.

"Shut up, Edward; you would have forgotten something!" she says, her violet-blue eyes flashing a challenge before she turns her back on me. "Hi," she smiles at Jasper and James with interest.

"Sorry," I address them. "This is Rosalie, my _baby_ sister," I say, emphasizing the word as payback for her dig at me.

"You look _very_ grown-up to me," James replies, and, not liking his salacious tone, I narrow my eyes at him.

"It's good to meet you," Jasper steps forward. "I'm Jasper."

"Hello, Jasper," Rose returns his greeting, but James angles him out of the way.

"James," he says, offering his hand, and then, when she accepts, holds onto hers for much too long for my liking.

"Let's go," I intervene and, taking hold of Rose's elbow, quickly lead her away.

"See you, Rosalie," James calls out, and I turn to glare at him. I don't want him anywhere near my sister and certainly not in the way his tone implied.

Much to my annoyance, I forget to pack the food containers that Mom specifically asked me to bring home.

"See?" Rose says smugly after reminding me.

"Shut up, and grab that bag," I tell her, playfully tugging at the ends of her hair.

.

.

On Saturday, at a party at Alec's place, Victoria interrupts my conversation with Libby, another friend of Tanya's I've been chatting to for most of the night. "I've decided to study law," she announces, making herself comfortable on the sofa arm next to me.

"I thought you wanted to work in the financial sector?" I ask, moving my knee from beneath her hand. She smiles; feigning apology for a seemingly unintended gesture, but I notice the irritation in her eyes at my rebuff.

"Changed my mind, and my undergrad in economics will qualify me for law school, so it's not wasted. How are you finding it?"

"It's a lot of work, but I'm enjoying it," I reply.

"Have you applied anywhere yet?" Libby asks.

"I'd love to join Edward at Harvard, but that's just not possible. My dad doesn't own his own business like his," she says, smiling at me and stroking my arm this time. I ignore the reference to money and try, also, to ignore her hand, which she hasn't removed from my bicep.

"I want to stay in Boston, so BU, Boston College, Northeastern… you know," she says, looking at me, disregarding the fact that Libby had asked the question. "I thought we could get together later tonight or perhaps tomorrow so I can pick your brains, Edward."

"I wish I could, Vic, but I'm taking Libby home, and I promised to spend tomorrow with my family."

"What about next weekend?"

"I need to prepare for my fall exam," I say, and then, suffer a twinge of guilt for not being more helpful. The thing is, I can't be sure about Vic's motives because she's come on to me before, and, although I like her, I'm not interested in her in that way, despite her very obvious attractiveness. Besides, she's been involved with Alec, then Liam, and she's even had a brief fling with Em—both she and Tanya have dated all three at some time. Not that I'm judging any of them, but I'm not into sharing women with my friends, and I'm certainly not keen to participate in whatever complicated shit their behavior has, at times, caused within our group. It's always been resolved, with no lasting grievances, but, damn, things have been awkward at times.

"Alec has my email address; just send me any questions you have, and I'll provide as much information as I can."

"Thanks," Victoria says, her voice noticeably cooler as she takes in Libby's hand—her nails slowly raking up and down my thigh because, yes, we've already decided we're both up for a good time.

"I'm ready to leave if you are, Edward?" she asks.

"Sure, just let me say goodbye to the guys, and I'll meet you back here," I tell her. "Take care, Vic," I turn to smile goodbye.

"You too, Edward," she answers, barely raising one in return.

The next morning, well, it's nearly midday when I walk into the kitchen, I find Dad and Rose sitting at the table, chatting while Mom bustles around.

"Did you have a good time last night, Son? I didn't hear you come in," Dad asks after I've greeted everyone.

"Ummm, I did, and I'm not sure what time I got in," I tell him despite knowing it was after four. At around one-thirty, when I started to dress and suggested to Libby that I should be going, she'd provocatively asked whether I was sure. She followed through by straddling me, and the lure of her hot, moist flesh had proven too much of a temptation. I responded with "perhaps just one more for the road," which turned into two for the road. Libby, it turns out, can be _extremely_ persuasive. Nearly two hours later, when I finally left her bed, she asked when she could see me again. "I'm not sure," I said, "I have a heavy workload; it's best I don't make promises or that you don't count on anything."

"You've already explained that you don't want to get involved with anyone, Edward. I understand that, but I had a great time tonight, and I'd like to see you again. No ties, of course—"

"I enjoyed your company too, Libby. I'll call sometime, and if you're free and still want to, I'd like to catch up again," I told her and made sure to get her number. I meant it because Libby had been good company, and the sex had been great too.

"It was quarter past four," Rose announces in an accusatory voice. "You woke me when you went to the bathroom.

"Why does he get to come home at all hours?" she challenges our parents.

"Because Edward's no longer a teenager and you are," Mom replies.

"I'm nearly twenty!" she protests.

"In eight months, Rosalie, and we'll discuss your curfew again when you turn _twenty-one_ ," Dad says, his tone inviting no argument. She huffs before turning back to me.

"Were you at Alec's till that time? Who else was there?"

"There were lots of people; I didn't know them all," I reply, deliberately ignoring her first question.

"Was …never mind; I'm not interested in your boring friends," she says and flounces out.

"Are you hungry, sweetheart?" Mom asks, placing a cup of coffee in front of me. "I saved you some waffles and sausages, and I can fry you an egg."

"Please, Mom," I smile my appreciation, and when she kisses my cheek, I wrap my arm around her waist to give her a hug.

While Mom gets my breakfast, Dad and I chat about my upcoming exam and how prepared I feel for it, and I ask about his latest projects at work. Later, I take Rose out and, over a late lunch, listen to stories about her experiences at MIT, where she's studying strategic marketing and management. I ask about her friends, relieved to learn she doesn't have a steady boyfriend and that she's dated but as part of a group. "Keep it that way, and promise me you'll be careful," I warn.

"If you're worried that I'm sleeping around, then you can stop, Edward. Although, I don't see how it's any of your business. You've hardly saved yourself for that someone _special_ like you're always telling me to. You, Emmett, and the rest of your gang—who did you sleep with last night?" she asks caustically.

"Rose—"

"I don't want to hear your excuses," she tells me, her expression a mixture of anger and hurt.

"Rose, it's different; _you're_ different," I say, holding up my hand when she's about to interrupt. "You're my sister, and I love you. I don't want anyone to take advantage of you, and I don't want you to be hurt."

"Why? Because I'm deaf?"

"Don't be ridiculous! Because you're young and beautiful, and you're still innocent."

"How old were you when you started sleeping around? Do _you_ take advantage of girls—is that why you worry about me?"

"I don't take advantage of anyone, especially not innocent girls—the girls I see know what they're getting into, and I don't ever lie to them."

"But you do sleep around—you and your friends—"

"I don't _sleep around_ —well, not as much as you think I do," I correct myself when she glares at me. "And what's my friends' habits got to do with anything?" I ask.

"Never mind… let's just forget this conversation," she decides, and because I'm being a bit of a hypocrite and don't feel comfortable discussing my sex life with my sister, I do as she suggests. Our disagreement, as always, is soon forgotten, and we spend the rest of our time chatting, teasing, simply enjoying each other's company like we always do.

That night, we join Mom and Dad for a night of watching movies in front of the television like we did when we were kids. I spend most of Sunday in my room studying, stopping only to join the family for meals, and on Monday, I return to campus to repeat the hectic routine of the last three months.

* * *

 **Thank you, as always, for reading.  
**

 **My thoughts are with New Yorkers today. I'm making my first trip to your city this year, and I remain determined to visit, pay my respects, and enjoy the sights and indomitable spirit of its citizens.  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

I've made it through the first year of law school! The feeling of relief is almost indescribable; it feels as if the weight of the world's been lifted from my shoulders. I've not only passed, I've also done well, better than I'd hoped to do. I'd aimed for a place in the top five percent of One L graduates; that, I thought, would help me secure one of the few, highly coveted summer internship positions offered by the DA's office. I had, in fact, graduated in the top one percent, an achievement, I hope, will give me an edge, if not in there, then at one of the district courts or clerking for a judge— _anything_ that will get me courtroom experience.

Waiting for my results had been nerve-wracking; honestly, the suspense and self-doubt had been almost crippling. I hadn't been the only one on tenterhooks, though. It seemed that everywhere around me conversations would, inevitably, start with the phrase, "have you heard?"

We were put out of our misery two days ago, and, judging from the almost immediate lifting of the tension that hung in the air like a pall, anxiety had ended for the majority of One L's. In section three, nearly all of my fellow students received a pass mark. The small number who failed had been and remain, understandably, devastated. I truly sympathize; the thought of having to repeat the ordeal of the last year, just too daunting to contemplate. At least they'll know what to expect, I told those I had the opportunity to commiserate with. Empty platitudes, I know, but what the hell else is there to say?

Jasper also ranked among the top students, and James received what he deemed an acceptable passing grade. So, on the night we received our results, we celebrated—hard. Festivities started in our dorm lounge where we met up with a bunch of fellow students. From there, at James' suggestion, we moved on to the apartment of a friend of his, George, who was hosting a party. George, a second-year MBA student, has a seemingly endless supply of money, which he throws around liberally, and a reputation for being a party animal. "There'll be lots of willing women there," James promised the guys he invited. I'd always avoided George's parties, which I'd heard could get pretty wild. But, free from studying for a while, I could afford to indulge myself, I rationalized.

And I did. That night, for the first time in a long while, I overindulged in alcohol and, when I left the party with a young woman, Crystal, we both glutted ourselves on sex. I thanked my lucky stars when, at some ungodly hour, I managed to flag down a cab. At home, I tore my clothes off and fell into bed. It felt like my head had only just hit the pillow when I was woken by loud, incessant banging.

"What the hell…" I muttered irritably as, clumsily clutching a bed sheet around my waist, I stumbled to the door. A very irate Rosalie confronted me.

"We were supposed to meet over an hour ago," she accused, pushing past me.

"I said I'd meet you at one," I snapped, equally annoyed.

"It's after _two_ , Edward!" she shot back.

"It can't be—" I said, cut off by a snort from the doorway. Only then, did I notice James, still in the clothes he'd worn the night before. I glared at him but spoke to Rose.

"What the hell are you doing with him?" I demanded, the visual of him last night—the last I'd seen—groping the breast of one girl while another, also naked, knelt between his legs instantly springing to mind. I'd mistakenly wandered into the wrong room when looking for a bathroom. The girl on her knees appeared quite drunk as she smiled at me lopsidedly. James had been unabashed; in fact, he blatantly challenged me when he asked whether I wanted to join the fun. "Rachel sucks like a Hoover, " he crassly added, roughly bunching her hair in his hand and ramming himself into her mouth.

"Are you okay," I asked the girl who's breast he was still tugging at; the one still able to speak. She nodded and, satisfied they weren't there under duress, I turned to him. "Lock the fucking door," I snapped before slamming it shut behind me. I'm not in any way a prude. I mean, I love a blowjob as much as any man. I've even, at times, been demanding— with the woman's consent and if it's what she wanted, of course. But what the hell? Being sexually uninhibited is one thing, but being so blatantly demeaning to women is quite another.

I'd been trying to rid myself of that memory when he spoke from his position outside my door. "Relax; I was just making sure your sister got in safely," he said before, with a wave and wink at Rose, he sauntered off in the direction of his room.

I wanted to race after him to physically warn him against messing around with my sister. I wanted to interrogate Rose and demand that she never speak to him again, but I'd been practically naked, and she turned on me first.

"You stink like a brewery and _woman_ ," she said her face scrunched in distaste. "Shower! I'll make coffee, then I'll help you to pack so we can get out of here."

I chose not to argue. I felt guilty and ashamed—for having stood her up and, mostly, for having her find me in the state I'd been in. It had _not_ been the best example to set; especially after the last conversation we'd had about my sexual habits.

That was a week and a half ago. I spent some of the intervening time catching up with my family and friends. Libby, having heard that I was around, called, and I invited her to join us at the pub one evening. I drove her home but declined her invitation to go up. "I'm not expecting anything from you, Edward," she assured me. "I'm glad because nothing's changed since we spoke. I'll call you next week, and if you're not doing anything, we'll get together," I said.

Most of my time, as I'd intended, was spent seeking opportunities and then applying for summer internships. I managed to line up a number of appointments; one is with Judge Benton's senior clerk, who, I'd been informed by one of my professors, may be looking for an intern. Clerking for a judge is a great opportunity because it provides a chance to see trials or appellate actions from the other side of the bench; something, which, unless appointed to the bench, one may otherwise experience. I also have two other opportunities, one, interning at a trial court, the other, at an appeals court.

But it's my first interview, the one I'm just about to walk into, that most excites me. It's also the one I'm most anxious about. From the day I decided to become a prosecutor, I've dreamed of working in this building, Number One Bullfinch Place, home of the largest and busiest district attorney's offices in Massachusetts. As a first-year law graduate, if I'm lucky enough to be accepted, I'd be assigned to one or more of the superior court trial and appellate units to assist in legal research, writing, and case preparation. I'll be able to visit the courthouse and observe criminal trials and motions. I may even have the opportunity, if granted, to argue in court. Nothing crucial, naturally, but first-year graduate interns often get the chance to present precedent or other points of law. The very thought has me tingling with both anticipation and apprehension.

And, once I've completed my second year, and if I'm invited back next summer, I'll be able to work in any of the district courts as a student prosecutor. I'd have to qualify under the special Judicial Court ruling that gives approval to upper-year law students of an accredited law school or one authorized by the Commonwealth to grant juris doctor or bachelor of laws degrees to appear on behalf of the government or defendants in criminal proceedings—supervised, of course. Only those who continue to do well academically and maintain an exemplary conduct record are approved. There is no payment, but students who need financial assistance can apply for a grant. The experience is invaluable to any would-be prosecutor, so competition to gain an internship in the DA's office, despite financial pressure, is fierce. Money isn't an issue for me, but it doesn't mean I can take anything for granted; applications are bound to outnumber the positions on offer, I'd been warned. So, it's crucial that I perform well during this interview today.

I'm meeting with Assistant DA Tara Nichols, and I learned, beforehand like all candidates that, should I make it through this interview, I'd be asked to meet Chief ADA Bill Watts. He, I guess, will make the final decision.

An hour later, I leave the building, thankful that the interview went well. At least, that's what I think. Tara had been easy to talk to; she reminded me a lot of Jenna, in fact—a younger version, but she's as sharp and forthright. I believe I answered her questions well, and our discussion, at times, felt a lot like the debates Jenna and I'd shared. Her parting words of, "We'll be in touch, Edward," didn't provide any indication of how well _she_ thought I'd done, but I refuse to give in to doubt. I'm still in with a chance, I tell myself as get into my car.

I waited nervously for the call, vacillating between bouts of hope and trying to prepare myself for the worse. 'You have other options, and there's always next year,' were phrases that ran through my head like the refrain on some overplayed music track. When, the next day, Bill Watt's assistant called, it was to arrange a meeting for the following day, today. And it's now four hours after that interview, and I'm waiting once again. I've been buoying my spirits with the thought that he, at least, had said, "I'll call you later today."

It had, again, I felt, gone well. A former HLS graduate, he asked about my experience as a One L and smiled, sometimes laughed at my account of how, particularly in the first few months, I'd struggled to cope. He congratulated me on what he called 'excellent results' and expressed particular interest in my reasons for wanting to become a prosecutor. When, without divulging details, I explained that I'd had a personal experience of how the premise that the law is there to serve everyone equally had impacted me, he appeared satisfied.

Late in the afternoon, he calls back himself to say the DA's office would be delighted to have me as an intern. I've been assigned to Tara Nichol's team, and she'll provide details of my duties and supervise me, he added. I start at eight-thirty on Monday morning.

Mom, home at the time, decides the family should go out for a celebratory dinner. The next morning, I call Judge Benton's chambers and each of the court clerks, thanking them for the opportunity to interview and advising them that I've been offered and accepted an internship with the DA's office and then call Em to arrange to meet him and gang at the pub that night.

On Saturday morning, I call Libby and, given that she's free, invite her out to dinner. We enjoy each other's company just as we did before, and, after dinner, we spend hours in her bedroom, enjoying ourselves some more.

On Monday morning, I arrive at the DA's office nearly half an hour before the designated time. I feel a bit sheepish when admitting to the receptionist just how early I am. "I'll just sit here and wait," I tell her. "Tara's already in; I'll let her know you've arrived," she insists. I'm grateful when Tara greets me warmly and tells me she likes an early starter. "I'm usually in at seven or seven-thirty," she says, and I resolve to get in at that time each morning too.

The rest of my summer break passes quickly, almost too quickly. I spend quality time with my family, most often at meal times, and see my friends often. I invite Libby out a couple more times, and sometimes, when I join the gang at the pub, she's there with Tanya. I make a point, no matter how tempting, not to sleep with her on each occasion we spend together. She's disappointed, I can tell, but I'm determined not to fall into a dating pattern.

My work at the DA's office remains my focus, and I love every second. Even the tedious research, the reams of reading material, so reminiscent of the many hours, in the past year, I spent doing the same thing, fail to dampen my enthusiasm. And then, exceeding all my expectations, Tara invites me to observe a trial, which she's second-chairing for Bill Watts on, a case I'd done a lot of research for. The defendants, a husband and wife, are charged with embezzling money and property from the mentally impaired man they were meant to care for and protect. I'm spellbound, watching Bill examine and then cross-examine defense witnesses and, finally, the defendants. I find myself anticipating his questions, thrilled whenever I'm proven correct.

When, nearly two weeks later, the defendants are found guilty, I'm elated. One could be forgiven for thinking I'd prosecuted the case myself. When I congratulate Bill, he thanks me and says I played a role in securing the verdict. "Your research strengthened our case," he assures me. He's being polite and exaggerating, I know, but still, I'm pleased and replay his comment over and over in my mind throughout the day.

Then, at the sentencing hearing a week later, when the judge orders the defendants to pay restitution to the victim and imposes the harshest penalties allowable under the law, my decision to become a prosecutor is solidified. Nothing can sway me from my course, I decide. This— _this_ is what I want to do, what I'm _meant_ to do.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading; I really appreciate you taking this journey with me.**

 **Thank you also to the lovely readers, past and present residents of NYC, who've provided me with much-needed and valued tips on where to go and what to see. I'll endeavor to fit everything in. I'll also be visiting Boston; I simply couldn't resist the opportunity to personally visit all the places I researched while writing the Counsel series. I'm so excited about that stop in my travels too!**

 **And lastly, apologies in advance for any errors. I've rushed the editing of this chapter as my other deadlines loom ever closer.**

 **Take care everyone, until next time.**

 **x**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

* * *

"You're nuts," James snorts. "Corporate transactions, litigation, and defense, _that's_ how you get rich."

"I'm not interested in getting rich," I say, determined to contain my temper. Neither James nor Jasper would understand my motivation anyway, and they know nothing about my wealth or my history with the Winstons, a family that surpasses either of theirs for money and status. I have no intention of enlightening them.

"With your academic results, you'd have your choice of law firms. Do you even know how intense the competition for the best graduates is and just how much the top guys are prepared to pay?" he asks, unaffected by my response.

"I'm aware, and it doesn't make any difference. I won't change my mind, James, so drop it!" I reply, pissed off that he won't let it go. Since learning about my internship, James has been trying to convince me to change my career path. Jasper shares his views, but he, at least, seems to have accepted my decision to become a prosecutor. How the fuck he thinks it's any concern of his, I don't know. I, sure as hell, have never questioned what they want to do.

We're driven by different things; Jasper by his political ambitions—his own and that of his father for him, and me, by my desire to represent the victims of crime. James appears to have no driving force other than the wish to amass an even greater fortune. To each his own, I say. It's a good thing we don't see each other as often as we used to. If we did, James would have more opportunities to regurgitate this futile discussion, and I'd probably give in to the desire to punch him.

Our second year is markedly different from the first. As One L's we were required to study criminal law, contracts, legislation and regulation, torts, civil procedure, and property. We also had to undertake legal research and writing, referred to as LRW, and participate in problem-solving workshops. Other than two elective courses, most of our time had been spent with our group members. So, given our membership of section three and our housing at North, Japer, James, and I spent a lot of time together.

In our second and third years, we have flexibility. We're able to tailor a curriculum to suit our personal goals. Other than the stipulation that we take a course in personal responsibility and the need to complete a significant piece of written work, known as the third-year paper, we're free to choose from the wide range of law courses offered.

So, while we remain friends and continue to spend a good deal of our free time together, we're no longer joined at the hip, so to speak. We share some courses, but we've each chosen to include subjects suited to our ambitions.

"Well, I think— " James, who never knows when to quit, continues.

"What are we doing tonight?" Jasper, sensing my rapidly rising irritation, interjects.

James' eyes light up. "The med guys are having a party," he says, referring to some third-year medical students he knows. "Are you guys up for it?"

"I'm in," Jasper replies immediately.

"I can't; I've made plans with Rose," I say.

"Bring her," James suggests.

"No way! I don't want her exposed to the shit that goes down at those parties."

"What? She's at college—you don't think she's seen anything like that before?" James scoffs.

"She better not have," I snap. He's about to respond, but Jasper, again, intervenes.

"It's better that you don't invite her. You'd be watching her all night and never relax."

"You can't act like a guard dog, Edward; she's an adult," James chimes in.

"Mind your own fucking business," I tell him, not liking his tone or the fact that he thinks he can tell me how to behave with my sister.

"Just saying," he says, trying to make light of his comment, but I know him better.

"Stay away from her," I warn him.

"She's stunning, but I wouldn't dream of pissing you off," he says. "There's plenty of fish in the sea, right? I may even go after that little doctor friend of yours. She has a thing for you, but I'm sure I could persuade her to forget about you."

"What?" he challenges. "You don't think I can?"

"I'm not interested in Brooke in that way. I value our friendship too much, and I'm sure you won't succeed. She's too smart to fall for your line of bullshit."

"Edward's right. Perhaps you should adopt a new approach?" Jasper jokes.

"Why? It's worked so far, and I just haven't even tried with her yet. How about a wager?" James goads Jasper. "A thousand says I'll get her into bed; I'll double it if you want some skin in the game," James returns. "I'll even give you a head start."

"Jasper!" a female voice calls out before he can reply. Cynthia Buchanan, his sometimes girlfriend, makes her way over.

"Well, there goes _my_ plans for tonight," Jasper mutters under his breath. He gets up to greet her, barely masking his irritation.

"I knew I'd find you here," she says, kissing his cheek. She's referring to Café Pamplona, an iconic coffee shop near Harvard Square, that we often frequent. I have no doubt that she would have tracked Jasper down to almost anywhere, she's that determined to hang onto him. His interest in her, though, can best be described as tepid. He once confessed that he continues their on again-off again relationship only to appease his father. "To get him off my damned back," he'd said.

"James," Cynthia gushes and leans down to kiss his cheek also. "Hi, gorgeous," he returns, making her smile even wider. It leaves her face, and her eyes narrow when she turns to me. "Edward," she says coolly.

"Cynthia," I respond, matching her tone. There's no love lost between us. She's snubbed me from the moment Jasper introduced us, and I, admittedly, refuse to fawn over her the way James does. I have no idea what her problem with me is, and, frankly, I don't care. Cynthia epitomizes everything I detest about people like her.

The Buchanans rival the Whitlock family's political history, and Jasper's father is determined to merge the two families through Jasper and Cynthia's marriage. The alliance would, in his view, significantly improve Jasper's chances when he eventually makes his bid for the presidency. I say when, not if, because Joshua Whitlock, from what I've learned about the man since befriending his son, will stop at nothing to realize his family's ambition to see a Whitlock in the White House. It's not Cynthia's political pedigree that I hold against her, nor is it her family's wealth. What I abhor is her sense of superiority, the fact that she considers everyone who isn't part of the social elite or who doesn't have obscene wealth as being beneath her. It's her sense of entitlement that fuels my dislike—the same attitude, probably, that resulted in Edward Winston casting Elizabeth and me aside as easily as he would used clothing.

Withdrawing some notes from my wallet, I place it on the table before rising. "I'll see you Monday," I tell Jasper and James before leaving.

.

.

It's the last day of my semester break, and Emmett and I are having a quiet drink at a pub, not the one where Alec works; we were there two nights ago. It's rare that Em and I get to spend time alone these days, so we've made the most of catching up on what's happening in each other's lives. He wants to leave the company he's working for and find a smaller one. "I'd like to interact with clients more, feel like I'm making a real difference," he says. "I've enjoyed the large-scale projects, but I'm only one of several contributing."

"What kind of company?"

"A small to medium-sized construction or architectural firm; a place that does domestic as well as commercial work."

"Why don't you speak to my dad? He could probably point you in the right direction," I suggest.

"Do you think he'd talk to me?" he asks, his excitement clearly visible.

"I'm sure he'd be happy to. I'll mention it to him," I promise, and, then, when he thanks me, shrug it off, telling him it's no problem.

"I saw Rose yesterday," he says.

"Where?"

"She was with some guy, coming out of Strega on the waterfront."

"What guy?" I ask.

"His name's James. He looked a bit jumpy when Rose introduced me as your best friend—"

"That fucker! I'm going to kill him…"

"Edward; what the hell?" Emmett lays a restraining hand on my arm, and it takes me some moments before I'm calm enough to describe James. He confirms that the description matches the guy he met. When he asks what my problem is, I tell him about James and his treatment of women.

"If you need any help kicking his ass, let me know," he says, angry too, but that's hardly surprising. Em's been nearly as protective of Rose as I am since we caught those kids harassing her at school.

She isn't home when I get there, and the thought that she could be with James infuriates me more. "What's wrong, Edward?" Mom asks when, unable to settle down, I get up and pace around the living room.

"Nothing," I answer because Rose and I have never snitched on each other. Instead, I make some excuse about needing to catch up on my reading and go upstairs to wait.

The minute I hear the front door slam shut, I make my way to Rose's room. I'm sitting on her bed when she opens the door.

"Where've you been?" I sign, not wanting Mom to hear us argue because I have no doubt we're about to.

"Out," she says.

"Who with?"

"A friend. Why are you so mad?" she demands, turning to hang up her jacket.

"James?" I demand, getting up to stand in her way.

"Does it matter?" she snaps, elbowing past me.

"Yes, it _matters_!" I snap right back.

Rose, her anger almost matching mine now, juts her chin out; her violet-blue eyes narrow in warning. "I'm not a child, Edward; you can't stop me from seeing him. And you were out of line by telling him to stay away from me—"

That prick! I can well imagine how he manipulated that piece of information to gain Rose's trust. "He's a jerk, who treats women like objects!"

"Don't you?" she demands. "The only reason you want me to stay away from James is to stop me from finding out what you get up to."

"No, I fucking don't! And that's not why—"

"What's going on in here?" Mom asks, and I realize I've been shouting. "Edward, watch your temper and stop cursing, especially at your sister. I don't bother telling Mom that Rosalie has, on many occasion, outsworn me.

"He's being ridiculous," Rose scowls at me. I glare back, challenging her to be reasonable, but it's clear she's determined to ignore anything I say.

"Sorry," I apologize to Mom before turning on my heel. In my room, I start packing.

"What are you doing?" Mom asks, stepping inside.

"I have a lot of work to do to prepare for tomorrow, so I'm going back to my apartment," I say to appease her.

"But we agreed you'd leave in the morning—" she protests and then, stepping close, touches my arm.

"What were you arguing about?"

"Nothing, Mom. You know how we are. It's just a disagreement; it'll blow over," I assure her.

"Are you sure you have to go?" she appeals. I hate disappointing Mom, but I've decided what I need to do, so tell her yes and return to stuffing clothes into my bag before she can question me further.

"I'll get your food supplies ready," Mom says and kisses my cheek.

At Mass Avenue, I stop only to dump my bag on my bed and place the food in the kitchen before making my way to Jasper and James' apartment. Jasper opens the door and is about to greet me, but I brush past him.

James is leaning in the doorway to their living area. The bastard smiles as if he doesn't have a care in the world. "I thought you weren't back until the morning," he says. "Want a beer?"

I grab him by his collar. His shock does little to douse my anger, it stokes it because he'd apparently thought he'd get away with messing around with Rose behind my back. I pin him to the wall, my forearm pressed tight against his throat. "You fucking stay away from my sister!" I tell him. I'm so mad; I feel myself vibrating. Thoughts of how James treats women, how he talks about them after, memories of Elizabeth crying out as some man hurts her, the helplessness I felt then, all flood through my brain. Fuck that; I'm no longer a helpless kid. No one's going to harm any of my family ever again.

"Hey, I like her…" James tries to protest.

I increase the pressure on his throat. "I don't give a shit! I'm not having you treat my sister like some easy lay." His face turns red, his eyes wide and panicked in his struggle to breathe.

"Edward—" Jasper intervenes, but his placating voice only pisses me off more—ever the politician, pretending to take the high ground when, in fact, he condones James' behavior. He probably does the same shit, except he's much smarter and more subtle.

"You _knew,_ and you didn't tell me?" I accuse him.

"It really isn't any of my business," he says, raising his hands.

"Well, it's _my_ fucking business. You should have told _me_ ," I glare at him. A look of acknowledgment, or perhaps it's appeasement, crosses his face. I can't tell; I'm too mad to think straight.

"Ed…Edward, just hear me out, okay?" James chokes. "I haven't had sex with Rosalie—" I tighten my hold, bringing myself almost nose to nose with him, silently warning that I don't want to hear any of his usual bullshit. He returns my gaze steadily. "I won't," he says and then assures me that he respects Rosalie. I ease off, not quite releasing my hold.

"My sister is nothing like the girls you go around with. If I find out you've done any of the shit you usually get up to with her, I'll take your fucking head off. I don't give a shit about the consequences," I tell him, and then, with one last shove, walk away.

It takes weeks before I can be in James and Jasper's company or even look at them without feeling anger, but things eventually return to normal. Well, as normal as they can be, given that they've both confirmed my initial observation—that we have little in common and that neither of them have accepted or are likely to view me as a true friend. Friends don't treat each other so underhandedly. James, realizing the precarious nature of our truce and knowing that I'm watching like a hawk, is careful not to antagonize me.

Rose and I make up the weekend following our argument. She promises she'll be careful. "He's fun to be with, Edward," she says about James, and, then, when I start to warn her about his reputation, she cuts me off. "We're just seeing each other casually, and I wouldn't get intimate with someone I'm not in a serious relationship with," she assures me, so I let it go because I trust my sister not to lie to me.

When, about a month later, Rose tells me she and James are no longer seeing each other, I'm both delighted and relieved. I stop monitoring his behavior, put my friendship with both him and Jasper into perspective and concentrate even harder on my reason for being at Harvard.

* * *

 **That's it for this week, everyone. Thanks, always, for reading :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

* * *

It's been nearly five months since I graduated, Summa Cum Laude. Jasper also graduated with a distinction, Magna Cum Lauda. James didn't. He received a creditable pass and, as predicted, appeared more than satisfied. "At least I managed to maintain a decent social life," he said.

Campus, on graduation night, had been rowdy, the air filled with the celebratory sounds of students breaking free from the chains of academia. I joined the celebrations without restraint, the first time since entering law school that I'd allowed myself to let go.

"We fucking made it!' James shouted as he popped the cork on yet another bottle of champagne, the last in the case he'd managed to smuggle onto campus. He guzzled from the bottle before passing it to Jasper. "To our future,' he said and took several gulps before handing it to me. I smiled, endorsing his comment. "May it be everything we hope for,' I added, raised the bottle to my mouth and drank deeply.

I left that party in the early hours of the morning with Crystal, who'd been invited by someone else, not me, and spent what was left of the night in her bed. I woke before her and hauled myself out of bed, anxious to get back to my apartment to do the last of my packing and go home. Crystal didn't wake, so I rummaged around until I found some paper and wrote her a note saying goodbye and wishing her luck because she, too, would soon be leaving Harvard.

I ran into Jasper in the hallway as he was taking out some garbage. He looked nearly as bad as I felt. "I made some coffee; do you want some before I pack everything away?" he asked.

"Sure," I said and followed him to their apartment, grateful because, only moments before, I'd been cursing myself for not stopping to buy myself a large coffee.

"James isn't back yet," Jasper announced as he handed me a mug. Their door slammed shut before I could reply, and James entered, looking the worse for wear.

"You look like hell," I said as he threw himself down onto the sofa.

"That's what spending the night with three drunk, horny women will do to you," he answered, grabbing Jasper's mug from the coffee table.

I chose not to respond. I didn't want to hear the details of James' night that, with even the slightest encouragement, would almost certainly follow. "I should go; I still have packing and cleaning to do," I said instead. I shook hands with both, and we exchanged good wishes and promised to keep in touch. I knew it was nothing but platitudes; we all did. After all, none of us held any illusions of a lasting friendship. Our only common interest, our experience at law school, had come to an end.

Glad to be home on a permanent basis and grateful for the presence of my family, the comforts of home and my own bed, I allowed myself a week to unwind. I spent time with Mom, Dad, and Rose, collectively and as individuals, something I hadn't done in ages. Mom and Dad were over the moon about my results, just as they'd been when Rose graduated the year before. Their pride filled me with a sense of satisfaction, but I couldn't allow myself to be complacent because I had one more hurdle to clear. Before I could become a prosecutor or, in fact, practice as a lawyer in any capacity, I had to gain admission to the bar. And so, after a long, boozy night at the pub with Em and the guys, I hunkered down to prepare for yet another exam.

Then, more than ever, I felt vindicated that I'd ignored the advice of so many not to sit the MPRE early. Most of my fellow students, Jasper and James included, opted to wait until after graduation to sit the exam designed to test the knowledge and understanding of the standards that govern lawyers' professional conduct. Passing it is a prerequisite for sitting the bar exam. "What's the rush," Jasper asked. "Why add unnecessary pressure? Take the bar exam in February like everyone else," he said, but I didn't want to wait. In Massachusetts, bar exams can only be sat in July or February, and it seemed senseless, given the years of study I'd already put in to drag out the process by nine months. So, I gave up what little free time I had, studied for and sat the MPRE and, thankfully, passed, which, after graduation, left me free to study for the bar exam.

I sat that exam in July as planned, and, in the twelve weeks it took for me to get my results, I underwent the character assessment test, another necessary step before I could apply for admission to the bar. In October, I received notification that I passed.

I have plans gain admission the New York bar also. It may come in useful I rationalized when first hatching the plan. In truth, my decision had been more about making an imprint, small though it may be, in the place Edward Winston called home than any motivation I vocalized. But that plan can wait. Right now, I want to my achievements. It's the first time, in a long while, that I've allowed myself the luxury of looking back rather than forward.

I won't lie; law school had been hell at times, particularly that first brutal year— those first few months, especially, when I wondered what the hell I'd taken on. But I made it; I got through the endless, _endless_ hours of study and reading. At times, I felt as if the library had become my second home. The second and third years had been less stressful, not only because of the lessened workload but thanks, also, to the conditioning of our year as One L's. Those last years hadn't been a walk in the park, though; there'd always been something more to learn, to understand.

Many made the most of the flexible programs to participate in extracurricular activities. Like them, I welcomed the reprieve but chose to limit myself. I competed in moot court and, along with Jasper, joined the debating team. I enjoyed the intellectual stimulus of both, and, to me, the combination of the two seemed the perfect vehicles to test and hone my legal knowledge and improve my oratory skills.

I avoided the official sporting teams, and what free time I had, I devoted to fencing, something I discovered and grew to love while in college. I find it both physically and mentally testing, and I enjoy the company of Nick Burns, my instructor. I, especially, appreciate the time away from anything law or campus related.

Jasper and James returned to rowing and tried to convince me of its merits. "It won't interfere with your studies; you're pretty much on top of everything anyway," Jasper said, but I steadfastly refused, pointing out that I was managing _because_ of the limited potential for distraction. That had been true, but there'd been another reason I refused.

Before starting my undergrad degree, during a visit to Harvard, I was shown the Trophy Room. Among the victory regalia and team photographs, one, for some reason, drew my attention. A particular face stood out. I recognized the all-too-familiar jawline, the shape of the nose. His hair had been light brown, almost blond, his eyes gray or blue, nothing like mine, yet I knew. I knew before reading the plaque that Edward Winston had once been a member of the heavyweight rowing team. The inscription was dated fifteen months before my birth, and I wondered whether he'd already met Elizabeth. Had he already planned to take advantage of her? Rage and disgust burned through me at the sight of his carefree, smiling face. It took everything in me not to smash my fist into the glass.

I chose Harvard, knowing that he'd attended. I wanted to prove myself his equal in the place he'd probably hoped to graduate from; but I had no intention of replicating every facet of his time there, quite the opposite, in fact. I had, then, and still have no compulsion to participate in something he'd so obviously enjoyed. And that, other than not wanting to get sidetracked, had been why I refused Jasper's invitation.

That night, more than a year after Charles Adams handed them over, I asked Dad for the letters Edward Winston left me. I'm not sure what I hoped to find—some redeeming feature perhaps, or something to ease the hurt and anger I felt. I found no such thing. All reading those letters did was add Elizabeth's pain and sense of rejection to my own. I hated the bastard even more.

Each word of those letters is imprinted in my brain. Even now, seven years later, I recall every one.

 _Dear Edward,_

 _I'm confused and hurt. I don't understand why you left, why you refused to speak to me after my news, and why you didn't leave a telephone number or address. I loved you; I still do, and I thought you loved me._

 _I know my pregnancy came as a shock. Believe me; I was shocked too. I don't know what happened, but surely you must accept that it wasn't my fault? Not entirely. I was foolish and made a mistake. We both did, but I couldn't do what you asked. I couldn't kill our baby._

 _So, in less than three months, I'll give birth. I don't know if it will be to a son or daughter, but I feel sure our baby's a boy. I don't know why; I just do._

 _When I read your note, I was determined to do this on my own, and, so far, I've managed. But my doctor's told me I have to slow down. I can no longer work at two jobs, and I can't work double shifts. If I do, I'll harm my baby—our baby._

 _I have no one else to turn to, so I'm asking you for help, Edward, please. Not for me, but for our child, just enough to see me through the birth and until I can work again. I'm not asking for anything else. Although, I can't help hoping and praying you'll change your mind; that you'll want to be involved in his life in some way. I just know that if you see him, touch him, feel him, you'll love him. I already do. I did from the moment I learned of his existence._

 _I'm begging you, Edward, for our child's sake, don't abandon us. We need you._

 _Yours,_

 _Elizabeth._

I hadn't shed a tear for Elizabeth for nearly a decade at the time of reading her words, but I admit to crying that night. Not for me, not for the photograph of the baby attached to the letter, one, she must have sent after my birth. I cried for her, for the anguish I read between those lines, for the fact that she begged, not for herself but for _me._ But I was also so fucking angry. How, having known what abandonment felt like, could she turn to drugs and leave me?

 _His_ letter, though, made me put my fist through my bedroom wall.

 _Edward,_ he wrote.

 _I have no idea how old you'll be by the time you read this letter, but I hope you'll be old enough and man enough to understand. I wondered long and hard about what to tell you, what the right things to say would be, and frankly, I'm no closer to knowing, so I'll just go for the truth._

 _I'm a man of position, born into a family with great wealth, a family with status in society, a place that generations before me have strived to improve and uphold. It would be highly unacceptable for anyone in our family to marry outside of our social circle, and it would be unthinkable to father and admit to having a child out of wedlock._

 _My relationship with your mother was never meant to be more than a brief affair, but, unfortunately, things got out of hand, and she fell pregnant. In hindsight, I realize that I should, perhaps, not have pursued her because I knew there could be, would be, no future for her with me. But Elizabeth was extraordinarily lovely, and innocent, so different to any woman I knew. I succumbed to temptation, and when things imploded, I left. I hoped she'd take my advice and move on, but she didn't._

 _I was angry when I learned that she'd decided to go ahead with the pregnancy, and I refused to help when she all but begged for assistance. I was callous in my refusal, but it was best for everyone concerned. Elizabeth would move on, marry someone, and she and her child would be taken care of, and I would live the life I was meant to—one without complication. And I did; until some years ago, when watching my son, my daughters, I found myself wondering about my other child. Yes, there was never any doubt in my mind that you were mine; Elizabeth had been untouched when I met her._

 _I paid an investigator to trace your birth. That's all I wanted to know—when you were born, whether I had a son or daughter, so that, one day, I could try to compensate for my actions._

 _I wish you well, Edward, and hope you live a productive life._

Mom and Dad both rushed into my room when I hit the wall. I expected Dad to be angry, disappointed at the very least; but he took one look at me, at the crumpled letter on the floor and wrapped me in his arms. "It's okay, Son, I've got you," he said, over and over as I gulped for air, trying to contain the torrent of tears, to clear my head of the red haze of anger. Mom rubbed my back while Dad held me. "I fucking hate him, I _hate_ him," I said. Neither admonished me for swearing; and Mom, when I told her to throw out his letter, said she would. She took it and Elizabeth's letter and the photograph and returned a short while later.

They left when I calmed down. "We'll talk when you're ready," Mom said and kissed me on the forehead. We did talk, the next day. Both my parents reminded me that they loved me, that I'm a Cullen. "I hate that I have his name. Why did she name me after him?" I asked.

You're a better man than he ever was, Edward. The fact that you share a name doesn't diminish who you are. It's Elizabeth's legacy to you. It was her way of nullifying his rejection," Mom said.

"Make it count; make it stand for more than he did. Be a better man than he was; than he ever _could_ have been," Dad added.

"Screw him," Rose said when she heard.

And now, without knowing exactly how smart Edward Winston had been, I feel I've equaled or, at the very least, come close to matching his academic achievements. I've proven that the child he wanted aborted is as good as he was, the equal to anyone from his privileged background. That, for now, is enough for me. I'm within spitting distance of realizing another desire motivated by my abhorrence for him—becoming a prosecutor—and I'll spend my life ensuring that I'm nothing like him.

My two summers of internship have paid off because, when hearing that I'd passed the bar exam, Bill Watts invited me to interview to fill one of two ADA vacancies. 'You understand that even though you've worked here, we're compelled to go through the process, don't you, Edward? It wouldn't be fair to the other candidates otherwise. That said, your academic results, coupled with your track record here, should stand you in good stead,' he said. I thanked him for the opportunity and in the days leading up to my appointment, tried to quell my excitement, reminding myself not to become over-confident.

I was surprised and momentarily confused when, on the day, I entered the meeting room, both Bill Watts and the DA, Mr. Beazley, were present. "Edward, I hope you don't mind that I've invited myself. I make it a practice, whenever I'm able, to sit in on final interviews," he said before I could apologize for interrupting.

"Of course not, Sir," I answered, trying not to look too awestruck. Gerard Beazley, known as Bristly because of his bushy eyebrows, is an imposing man. Tall and thickset with dark brown, almost black hair and piercing blue eyes, he has a formidable prosecutorial record. I should know; I read up on every one of his cases when joining as an intern. I'd seen him around the office, of course; he's hard to miss, but I'd never had the opportunity, before that interview, to speak with him. I took a calming breath when Bill Watts indicated I should sit and waited for the first question.

Mr. Beazley didn't say much. He listened and, occasionally, asked me to elaborate on a response, but I remained keenly aware of his presence. I tried not to let it distract me and concentrated hard not to think about how my answers would shape the DA's impression of me. I told myself to draw on my knowledge and to answer frankly. It took me some minutes to settle down but I did and, in the end, I felt I did well.

"Thank you, Edward; it was interesting," Mr. Beazley said at the end. I thanked them both and left, wondering what his cryptic comment had meant. Was 'interesting' a good or bad thing?

Eight days passed before Bill Watts called to say my I'd been successful, and, contingent on my admission to the bar, they'd like me to start at the beginning of December. I quickly assured him that I could and would be happy to start sooner, but he stopped me.

"You've just spent seven years studying, and I doubt you've had much time in the last three to truly relax. Forget about law for a while and do something completely different. It will benefit both you and the department in the long term," he said decisively.

I was disappointed at the time, but now, days later, I acknowledge he'd been right; my life _had_ been consumed by the law. When Mom and Dad heard about my job offer, Mom suggested we travel to Europe, something we'd spoken about doing for ages.

"You and Rose have both finished your studies, so the timing's perfect, and neither of you have to spend the entire time with us. You could go off on your own whenever you choose," Dad added without question, which led me to believe that he had Mom had already discussed the holiday. Rose immediately started planning, of course

"Don't you want to go, sweetheart," Mom, seeing my hesitation, asked.

" I do," I assured her, "it's just—I don't want to make any plans until I know whether I'll be admitted to the bar or not.

"You will be, Edward," she assured me.

"I'd rather not count my chickens," I replied.

"What's the worse case scenario, Son?" Dad asked.

"I'd have to take the exam again." He smiled, having already known the answer. "So, in the _unlikely_ event that you have to resit, when would you be able to do so," he asked, again, knowing that I'd have to wait until February.

"Exactly," he responded before I could, "so let's plan our trip." We did. Our plans included visiting London, Paris, and Rome. Mom and Dad wanted to see Ireland and Scotland, so Rose and I decided we'd stay on in London for a week longer and then meet up with them in Paris after spending a week in Spain.

Emmett, when he heard, asked if he could meet up with Rose and me in London and then travel with us to Spain.

"Sure," I said, "but you've never wanted to see Europe before?" I asked because he'd always spoken about South America and also because he seemed uncharacteristically embarrassed or nervous. I couldn't determine which, because Emmett avoided looking me in the eye, something else that was unusual.

"I just think it would be great to see those places with you," he said.

"Rose will be there too, so if you're expecting us to pick up girls, that won't be happening," I warned because Emmett is a bit of a player, worse than I'd ever been.

"I know that," he said, looking and sounding irritated.

"I'm not trying to be a dick, Em, but I wouldn't behave that way around Rose," I told him.

"Nor would I," he said glaring at me.

"Great, that's settled then," I told him, and so Emmett was included in our plans. I expected Rose to object that our time together would be spoiled, but she didn't. In fact, she seemed more than pleased. I found it strange because Rose had insisted that our time alone would be a good rebonding time. "I miss the way we used to be," she'd often lamented after I'd left for law school. Preoccupied with waiting for news from the admissions board, I thought no more of her and Emmett's odd behavior.

And Finally, the day I've been working toward for seven years arrived—well, eight, depending on whether I choose to measure my legal journey from that pivotal moment in Siobhan's office or the day I started my undergrad degree. This morning, I received official notification that I've been admitted to the Massachusetts' Bar.

In two weeks, I'll attend the formal admissions ceremony at Faneuil Hall, where, in an actual session of the court presided over by a Justice of the Supreme Judicial Court, I'll take the Attorneys Oath, sign the Roll of Attorneys, and be presented with my license to practice law.

Three days after that, I'll fly out to London with my family, and, later, Em will arrive. Then, he and Rose, my two best friends, will join me on my first European adventure. Right now, I feel extraordinarily blessed. I've come a long way from that neglected little boy who watched my mother's decline into drugs and prostitution and who, later, learned of a father who wanted him aborted. Thanks to the dedication and warm heart of Esme Cullen, who could so easily have written me off as just another welfare case, I've been given a new and better life.

Things could have turned out so differently for me, I know that; I've seen evidence of that during my pro-bono stint and internship. Gaining an insight into their lives and learning about the deplorable, sometimes barbaric nature of the crimes perpetrated against the weak and vulnerable has strengthened my resolve to make the most of the advantages I've been given. In January, when I start the new phase of my life, I'll do everything I can to secure justice for the victims of crime. After all, I could so easily have suffered their fate.

 **The End**

* * *

 **Sorry, I was running late on this chapter and hope I haven't overlooked any errors in my rush to publish.**

 **This has been the final chapter in the Counsel series posted to this site. I'm sad to leave these characters behind, but their departure provides the opportunity for me to write new things and to create new versions of Stephanie Meyer's wonderful personalities.  
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